Malade Imaginaire
by inthelookingglass
Summary: For once, the other men wished they'd believed Joly when he said he was ill.
1. Courfeyrac's Mistake

**I'm relatively new to this fandom, so this may be inaccurate/awful/I don't even know. Bear in mind, I've only read a bit of the brick so some characterisations might not be perfect but ah well. I've had this idea for a while now, but I only decided I actually wanted to write it recently so... here we go.**

**Set in modern day, because I know I'd end up messing up with the historical stuff because I'd forget Les Mis is set in the 19th century. Sick!fic, as it's just so fun to write:)**

* * *

The other boys are not particularly surprised by the familiar glazed look on Joly's face as he walks into the café. It isn't uncommon for him to come to a meeting, sniffling profusely as if his dear life depended on it(and if you asked him, he probably would have said that really was the case). Actually, it had become quite regular occurrence. The others know that his ailments are often pulled from thin air but they just ignore him as he clears his throat for what must be the millionth time that night. Bossuet is a little more sympathetic, knowing that his friend feels awful whether the cold is actually down to his body's defences being attacked or whether it is a fabrication of his mind.

Just because Enjolras tolerates Joly's ailments, it doesn't mean that he was particularly happy about it. He cares about Joly, he really does, but he'd rather the man could decipher between when he was actually ill and when he was just getting himself worked up. The sniffling always seemed too exaggerated whenever they were absolutely certain that the illness wasn't real, and always put Enjolras off track as he spouted yet another speech about 'equal rights'.

It's not that Joly fakes it; it's his hypochondria. He's just worrisome, and even the slightest tickle of his nose on a particularly bad day could unsettle his usually jovial mood.

Courfeyrac doesn't mean to come across as not accepting of his friend's worry. He's just concerned. Joly's usually so happy, and all his hypochondriac tendencies do is hold him back. He knows that his friend his happier when he can shove aside his anxieties, so his attempts at getting him to do so are always in good heart.

"Joly, come on," he sighs, as Enjolras finishes his latest speech and wanders over to speak with Combeferre.

"I can't help it," Joly rests his chin on his hand. "I can feel a cold coming on, I can just tell."

"I'm telling you, you're fine. It's all in your head."

"Courf, you're not helping," Combeferre shakes his head from the other side of the café.

"If you had a real cold, at least half of us would have it by now, surely. I'm so sure that you're not ill that I'd let you breath on me, Jol."

"Please don't..." Joly places his aching head into his hand.

"Seriously, breathe on me!"

Joly gives in to Courfeyrac quickly and does as he is asked, too exhausted to listen to the enthusiastic man's pleads for much longer. He regrets even coming to today's meeting, wishing he'd just stayed at home and nursed his cold with a warm cup of tea. He really did feel awful, whether he was making it up or not.

"Karma's going to come back and get you, Courf!" Grantaire laughs whole-heartedly from his corner of the room. "I mean I don't know, Joly looks a little ill, don't you think?"

Courfeyrac joins in with the laughter, leaving his seat beside Joly to join Combeferre and Enjolras. As Courfeyrac and Enjolras delve into a deep discussion on this morning's classes, Combeferre takes it as his opportunity to speak to some of his other friends. He takes it upon himself- as nobody else but Bossuet seems to care- to see for himself whether there is a possibility that maybe this is one of the rare occasions that Joly's illness is not in his mind. Joly is slightly out of it, overcome with a strange feeling exhaustion, so much so that he barely notices his friend place the back of his hand onto his forehead.

"You're are a tad warm actually..."Combeferre whispers, taking a look back at Courfeyrac, knowing that he'll be regretting his actions in the morning. "I hate to say it, but Grantaire was right when he said you looked a little ill."

"I'll drive you home," Bossuet offers, already in the process of lifting his coat from the back of his chair.

The night remains busy, as it usually does after one of the friends' meetings. Whilst the meetings main purpose originally was to help organize protests against inequalities within their community, it also has acted as a brilliant way to bring the friends closer together, sharing drinks and food over sometimes in depth discussions and the occasional song or two. Courfeyrac is often be the reason they all stay until the later hours of the night, turning many of the meetings into parties which only end when they either realised they were getting a little too drunk, or they'd ran out of drink to get drunk on. Although many remain sober- including Enjolras and usually Combeferre- these nights never cease to entertain every member of the group.

For once, they call it a night a little earlier than usual. The absence of Joly is obvious; like a gaping hole amidst the friends. They miss his infectious laughter and jolly nature; and as much as they don't want to admit it, it's a little too quiet without his sniffling. Courfeyrac and Enjolras walk back to Combeferre's. Courfeyrac, in the process of moving to a new apartment, has taken up lodging in his friend's spare room, and with university getting tougher, he's also blessed with Enjolras' presence, as the two are planning to make an attempt at studying together.


	2. Headache

Combeferre-having been woken up by Enjolras slamming the door behind him as he left to go get coffee before university at an ungodly hour- sneaks through to Courfeyrac's room to check on his friend. He doesn't particularly believe in the karma which Grantaire had talked about, but he believes that Joly truly is ill, and he had seen him breathe on Courfeyrac, which only suggests the possibility that cold had been passed on. He takes into account the pallid tone of his friend's face, especially in contrast with his bright red nose, and his assumptions are confirmed.

"Can you tell Joly I hate him?" he hears Courfeyrac mumble as he wakes up, his voice warped by congestion.

"I have no sympathy," Combeferre laughs heartily, placing the cup of tea he'd prepared next to Courfeyrac's bed. "It's completely your fault."

"I hate you too," he hisses, burying his head further into his pillow before pushing himself up from his bed. "Where's Enjolras?"

"Already left for class. Are you going in, or do I need to call him and tell him to make sure he takes notes?"

Courfeyrac takes a while to stumble out of his bed and give his friend a nod, yawning as he searches his cupboard for something to wear. He almost falls a couple of times, still dazed from both sleep and his blocked nose.

"I have to. Can't afford to miss anything this close to the end of the year," he sniffs dramatically. "If Joly's at today's lunch I'm actually going to kill him. And if not, I may just have to kill Bossuet..."

"You're actually going to come? You should probably, you know, sleep?"

"If I have to suffer, the other guys do too. I'm not leaving until at least half of the others have been infected with..." he stops, preparing himself for a sneeze which doesn't come. "This."

"If you're planning to go to university today, you should probably hurry up... You've got about an hour. You don't have to go in you know. Enjolras will be able to fill you in on the lecture-"

"It's only until eleven."

Combeferre hates to admit it, but he is a little sympathetic. Sure, the illness is self-inflicted, but there's no denying that Courfeyrac seems to be suffering. He looks like he can barely stand up straight as he hobbles over to take a sip of his tea to soothe his sore throat. He almost wants to forbid him from going to class and that afternoon's meeting, but he knows it's not worth the argument and leaves him be to prepare for his own day of classes. He too will only be at the university for the morning, with the school year coming to an end.

They go their separate ways, and aren't in each other's acquaintance until lunchtime. It's a regular occurrence for the boys to head towards the backroom of the student cafe where their meetings are usually held at to eat, an event which usually ends up being not too different from the aftermath of meetings, with drinking, laughing and songs.

It's then that Combeferre realises why Courfeyrac had insisted on coming. The barmaids- and Jehan, although Combeferre isn't sure if he's joking or not- coo over him, dramatically pressing their hands on his slightly warm head and running their hands through his hair. Courfeyrac, who would usually turn one of these lunches into a feast, picks away at a sandwich without really eating much of it.

As food is finished, the music gets louder and the men break into their usual groups to talk. Grantaire- and a few of the others, but most audibly Grantaire- break into song within minutes. It's not so much that Grantaire can't sing, it's more so that he chooses not to sing very nicely. He screams at the top of his voice, really only wanting to annoy the others more than anything else.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras looks up from the paper on the table in front of him. "Could you please stop singing. I've got a headache."

Grantaire obeys, taking to his usual corner of the room with his bottle. He's not in the mood for an argument with Enjolras tonight; he want's to be happy, to let the alcohol take over his body and for his thoughts to be pulled from his head for just _one night. _As much as it may sometimes seem that way, Enjolras doesn't hate Grantaire. He just hates his cynicism; his complete lack of care for almost everything in the world. As Grantaire chugs back another sip of alcohol, Enjolras can't help but think that he's throwing his life away. He could be so much more yet he reduces himself to absolutely nothing; he doesn't believe in anything really, because he can't believe in himself.

"You have a headache?" Combeferre whispers.

"No. It's just Grantaire's being... Particularly insufferable tonight. You try writing an essay with him screaming Britney Spears lyrics in your ears," Enjolras sighs, focusing back on the paper on which he's written nothing.

But Combeferre knows. He's known Enjolras longer than any of the others, and can read him like a book. He's frowning - an obvious sign that he's got a headache- and keeps pinching the bridge of his nose when he thinks nobody is watching him. Much to his friend's dismay, Combeferre's hand is on his forehead before he can protest. He has to admit, the cool hand does wonders for the pain that's pulsing behind his eyes.

"Nothing gets past me," Combeferre smiles. "Courfeyrac isn't looking too great either... We should probably head home-"

"I'm fine," Enjoras insists, but Combeferre is having none of it.

Enjolras is far too tired to keep up the act, so gives in quickly to his friend's worry. Courfeyrac doesn't put up a fight either; he's been wanting to leave for ages but hasn't had the heart to end his friends' night prematurely so has been sitting quietly in the corner. The only friend who has managed to be allowed his acquaintance for more than ten minutes has been Jehan, because he's quiet and doesn't insist on making conversation. If it's possible, he feels worse than he had felt earlier that day. His throat felt raw, and his sinuses were in agony.

He's thankful to be home, and slumps down onto the sofa. Unlucky for Combeferre, a sick Courfeyrac is a cuddly Courfeyrac, and he curls up with his head on his friend's lap before he can protest. He doesn't mind much; Courfeyrac will be asleep in seconds if he's that desperate to get up, and he's pretty tired himself so he doesn't really have any intentions of moving.

"How are you feeling?" Combeferre looks up towards Enjolras, who hands him a cup of tea and sits down on the armchair near him.

"It's a tiny headache, I'm fine. Stop making it out to be worse than it actually is. You always do this..." Enjolras sighs.

"Do what?"

"Act like you need to look after everyone, like you have to save _every poor lost soul!_ It's a headache, it's not the bloody plague."

"It's a bad headache. I can tell."

He really can tell. He can see that the very sound of Enjolras' own voice is making him wince in pain, and Combeferre can see him blinking desperately with dizziness.

"Sorry for snapping," Enjolras finally speaks. "I'm just difficult, aren't I?"

"That is a bit of an understatement. Now are you going to tell the truth, or are you going to continue to suffer in silence?"

"I feel like..." he's not used to actually admitting when he's not feeling great, so he takes a while to reply. "I feel horrible, actually."


	3. Not Themselves

"Maybe you've got whatever Joly and Courf have?" Combeferre suggests, being careful not to move so as not to disturb his sleeping friend.

"I better not have," Enjolras sighs deeply, curling up in his chair and yawning. "I never get ill-"

"No, you never admit when you're ill. There's a difference."

"I'm going to sleep..."

As much as the others hate him for it, Enjolras never ceases to make an attempt at hiding when he is feeling under the weather. They wish he'd just stay home and sleep for a couple of days whenever he's sick, instead of insisting on joining them at the student cafe and fainting at the unfortunate moment in time when he's standing on top of a table. Combeferre hates this habit the most, considering he's the one who usually has to peel him off the ground and make sure he hasn't smashed his head open. But Enjolras can't help it; he's a stubborn idiot who so desperately wants to be strong and independent that he refuses to admit when he needs help. The minute he accepts assistance is the minute where he allows himself the time to be what he sees as 'weak', and he just hates it.

Combeferre is one of the only ones who can get him to drop his stubbornness. This is mostly because he's like Sherlock Holmes when it comes to picking up on when people aren't feeling well, but it also has a lot to do with the fact that he's known Enjolras for so long. He knows that Combeferre has usually already caught on to the fact that he's under the weather or is upset, so often drops the act very quickly, knowing that it's not worth the exhaustion. If he's very ill, he will eventually allow himself the pleasure of complaining about it, but that's a side of Enjolras that is very rarely seen.

...

Joly however, had developed the complete opposite habit. He'd waste no time in telling you when he felt like crap, especially when 'feeling crap' could be considered as an over-exaggeration. Despite this, it is always obvious when he really is not well. A 'not really sick' Joly whines and moans and sniffs until his heart is content, but a truly sick Joly hardly makes a sound. He becomes mute, even the sounds of his coughs and sniffles being muffled into his hand or his pillow. It makes Musichetta worried, because it's just so uncharacteristic of Joly, as he's usually either extremely happy and guffawing with laughter, or a little less jovial but still just as loud as he complains about whatever is wrong with him this time.

"How are you feeling?" she sighs, breaking the hour long silence.

He shrugs. His throat is sore and he doesn't want to cough and he's just too exhausted, so he doesn't speak.

"It's more than a cold, I think," Bossuet places his hand on his friend's forehead. "You're really warm."

"Don't care," he coughs. "D-did Courfeyrac...-"

"Don't speak, you'll just waste your voice. He texted about how much he hates you so I'm going to assume so. Try and get some sleep, eh?"

...

"This is like... the death cold..." Courfeyrac mumbles as he wakes up the next morning.

Courfeyrac- unlike Enjolras and Joly- is thankfully a normal sick person. He doesn't try and hide it, and he doesn't make it out to be something bigger than it really is; if he's sick he'll tell you that he is sick, and if he's not he's won't. For that, Combeferre is thankful, because all he really has to do is give him medicine and make sure he eats and drinks something and then his job is done. Admittedly, he can be grumpy or get's teary because he'd rather not be holed up inside feeling like he's been hit by a planet, but it's pretty easy to cheer him up, so Combeferre doesn't mind.

His classes are finished for the holidays, which he's eternally grateful for because there is no way in hell he'd let Enjolras and Courfeyrac try to fend for themselves.

"That bad, huh?" Combeferre takes in his friend's pale appearance and sighs. "Bossuet texted and said Joly's pretty ill..."

"I still hate him," Courfeyrac staggers over, his legs feeling like jelly, and buries his head into his shoulder.

"Why does being ill make you cuddly?" he's taken aback by the gesture, not expecting it.

"I don't know," he shrugs, falling into the sofa with a dramatic sigh. "Uh... my head hurts."

"Do you want breakfast or is that a stupid question?"

"Eating is no fun when you can't taste anything. And I just... yeah, I'm not hungry."

"Are you nauseous-"

"No, just... don't want food."

"So, no university today?"

"Shit... I forgot," his eyes widen, and Combeferre has to stop him from from darting back to his room to get ready. "Enjolras is going to kill you when he finds out you didn't wake him up for class."

"I think I'm willing to take the risk."

"I-I... need to go get ready. I'm already late."

"Courf, you really don't look well at all; you think I'm going to let you go? It's your last class before the long break, surely it won't be that important."

Enjolras finally emerges a minute later with his hair all messy, and his eyes looking dark in comparison to his stark white face. It takes a second for Combeferre to realise that his friend has his t-shirt on backwards. He feels bad for laughing, considering that Enjolras looks and sounds pretty ill, but he can't help it.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" his voice is hoarse.

"He's not going to let you leave, by the way," Courfeyrac notes from the sofa.

"I'm fine, 'ferre," he stands up as straight as he can stand, and sniffs back the mucus in his nose so that it moves towards his throat.

The cold-or flu or whatever mutant virus it is- seems to have gone straight to his head, filling his sinuses up to the point where it feels as if his brain is being squished by his skull. His head is pounding, as if it can't decide if it's a dull ache or a horrible shooting pain so has decided to bless him with a combination of both. Even if he refuses to admit it to his friends, he just generally feels awful. He feels as if his blood is running slow through his veins; his body is still working, yet just a second behind how it should, making him lethargic and achy and just generally low in a way that he can't explain.

"You two honestly... You'd actually go into class feeling how you do?" Combeferre laughs. "Don't worry. I was just kidding you both on. Your lecture was cancelled; Courfeyrac seems to have passed the 'death cold' onto half the student body including Professor Valjean."

"Again, not my fault," Courfeyrac sighs. "It's all on Joly."

"Well I'm blaming you, Courf," Enjoras slumps down onto the sofa beside him.

"Jeez, and I thought I looked like shit..."

"Hey..."

"You really don't look well actually. You've definitely caught whatever Courf and Joly have."

"How come you don't have it?" he sends a jealous glare in Combeferre's direction.

"One of the perks of being a doctor is that you're exposed to colds and flus on a daily basis."


	4. The Poet Arrives

**So this chapter focuses completely on Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Enjolras, and then a little bit of Jehan, but the next chapter will probably be Joly/Musichetta/Bossuet:)  
**

* * *

Luckily for Courfeyrac, the 'death cold' as it's now being known as, manages to distribute itself quite equally between his head and his chest, although it does generate quite a bit of envy from Enjolras. Of course, it does leave him with an annoying cough, a nose that can't decide if it's runny or clogged and a minimal headache that's painful enough to be considered a proper headache, but not sore enough for it to be anything more than an annoyance, but it's better than feeling as if his brain is going to deflate or that his lungs are going to be coughed up every time he moves.

It grows quieter as the fuss over class draws to a close. Enjolras is struggling to keep his eyes open let alone talk, and Courfeyrac too has grown withdrawn, letting sleep overtake his body quickly. Combeferre smiles, taking the opportunity to read quietly for a while. Every so often, he looks up to see his friends, who've moved positions in their sleep so that Courfeyrac's head is rested on Enjolras' neck. He eventually notices that Enjolras has stirred from his sleep, but he still seems a little out of it so he refrains from making any conversation.

It reminds him of how much he genuinely cares for these two. He loves all of his friends equally, but these are the friends he's known for years; the friends that balance each other out. Enjolras' passion, Courfeyrac's good nature and Combeferre's great talent at being perfectly calm link together perfectly, like a lock and key. In each other's company, they begin to allow themselves to let go of any mask they put up to the outside world; Enjolras reveals his true emotions, Courfeyrac can be the quiet one for once, and Combeferre can let his hair down and just have fun. They are just so comfortable in each other's company that they genuinely know each other inside out.

"You okay?" he asks, his eyes peering worriedly at Enjolras over the top of his book.

He just shrugs. It's unlike Enjolras not to reply with an instant 'I'm fine', so Combeferre can't help but notice that he really isn't himself. He goes to fetch the thermometer, because he's pretty sure that this is more of a flu than a bad cold and he just wants to make sure; and as the contraption he places in Enjolras' ear bleeps, he confirms the diagnosis.

"Are you nauseous?" he notices his friend tense up, and can't help but worry.

"A little," he sighs. "It's just because of the pain in my head..."

"I'll get you a glass of water. I know you don't like it, but I'm going to have to bring that temperature down somehow and the only way that I can do that is with a wet cloth."

"I don't mind."

"Who are you and what have you done with Enjolras?" Combeferre laughs, before heading towards the kitchen.

"Nice sleep?" Enjolras smiles as Courfeyrac begins to wake up. "Feeling any better?"

"Worse," he sighs, before realising he'd fallen asleep- and drooled- on Enjolras. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter."

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Courf," Combeferre chuckles as he hands them both bottles of water and painkillers, and places wet cloths on their heads.

Just as he's about to sit down and finish his book, his phone rings. Sighing with annoyance, he wanders back through to the kitchen, knowing that speaking loudly on the phone wouldn't do much for Enjolras' headache.

"What's up?" Courfeyrac looks up tiredly towards his friend as he emerges again after fifteen minutes has passed.

"So remember how my shift at the hospital this week was cancelled?" he huffs, unhappy about the news he's just recieved. "They're short staffed. I have to be there within the next hour."

"Let me guess," Enjolras' voice would be intertwined with humour if it wasn't so warped by his illness. "You've already called one of our _amis _to look after us?"

"Who is it? Bahorel? Feuilly?"

"See if you've let Grantaire come over when we're feeling like shit, you're next on my hit list. And if it's Marius... I swear I will murder you right now."

"Don't worry. I asked Jehan. He'll be here within the next half hour.

If they were well enough, they would bounce of the sofa and smother Combeferre with kisses of immense gratitude. Jehan is probably the best person Combeferre could have asked. Feuilly would probably result in them talking for hours and hours when they probably should have been sleeping, Grantaire would probably just make Enjolras' headache worse, Marius' idea of a good conversation would be talking about his lonely soul, and there would be a high chance that Bahorel probably wouldn't even turn up. Jehan actually has the capacity to be quiet when he has to be, a talent which somehow seems to be quite uncommon.

Courfeyrac is really close to Jehan too, which is a bonus. Jehan's a passionate person, but in a much different way from Enjolras. Enjolras' passion oozes out through the way he says his words, whilst Jehan's passion shines through the actual words that he says. Courfeyrac never ceases to be amazed at how Jehan always manages to word things in the most delicate way possible. He- unlike many people- actually engages with the world, tapping into every single emotion that a human can feel and seeing the beauty in even the bad ones. Of course, love and happiness are his favourites as very few people dislike feeling good, but understands that the depressinglows are just as important and just as poetically human as the dizzy highs. Enjolras likes Jehan too. The two often talk for hours at meetings about politics; they don't necessarily talk often, but their chats are always lengthy. Jehan likes a lot of things, which means he's close to almost all of the others.


	5. Jehan Is A Star

"How come you're not sick?" Joly pouts towards Bossuet, feeling a little bit better after a good night's sleep. "You usually end up catching whatever I've got."

"I've already had it a few weeks ago, remember?" he shrugs, placing his hand on his friend's forehead to check if his temperature has went down at all. "I probably gave it to you all."

"So Courfeyrac and Enjolras are blaming poor Joly, when it's all your fault?" Musichetta laughs, bringing through a tray of soup. "You look better today, Joly."

"I still feel particularly awful, but much better than yesterday."

"You really weren't yourself. I was worried..."

It's rare for them to actually be worried; although the most sympathetic of those who he is close with, they tend more often than not tend not to share the worries he holds about his health. It's as if the tables have completely turned, as he's not the one that doesn't really care that he's ill; it can't really get much worse, so he doesn't see much point in creating a fuss. Besides, getting worried himself would just make him feel even worse, and he wouldn't want to make the loves of his life any more uptight than they are already.

He loves the pair of them. He really does. Musichetta is the most beautiful person he's ever met; they can just sit for hours, just laughing and smiling until sleep finally gets the better of them. She just understands him; it's like she's got the sixth sense of sensing how Joly is. And Bossuet never ceases to amaze him; he's just always so happy, even when life drops him at the bottom of the hill. He doesn't know where he'd be without him; probably drowning in tissues and hand sanitizer.

"So how are Courfeyrac and Enjolras?" Joly sighs, coughing into his elbow as he accepts the tray of soup.

"Not good, apparently," Bossuet scrolls through the texts on his phone, handing it for Joly to see.

"Good. Well not for Enjolras, but it serves Courfeyrac right," Musichetta shakes her head.

"I wouldn't wish this on anyone," Joly stops to sneeze. "Even if I am feeling better-"

"Don't do too much too soon; you have a tendency to get better before getting worse again."

"That's true."

"How about we stick a film on and relax for a bit, eh?"

Bossuet and Musichetta join Joly on the couch, beginning their movie marathon.

"Did any of the other guys get sick?" Joly asks as he cuddles closer into Musichetta.

"Not that I know of, nope," Bossuet shrugs.

"It's only been a day or two and I miss the meetings. Being home sick is boring."

"After years of leaving early and calling in sick to work and university every week, you're only realising that now?"

Jehan arrives at Combeferre's apartment exactly on time, the sound of the doorbell ringing through the flat just as Combeferre was about to leave. He's choked up himself- not ill, just bit of a sniffle which is actually due to his allergies- but a huge grin is spread across his face as he enters the flat. He's come bearing supplies that he assumes Combeferre doesn't have because he never gets sick; tissues, that awful cold medicine that tastes like hot blackberry and soup to name a few. Jehan-thankfully- shares Combeferre's tolerance for illness, usually only obtaining the smallest of symptoms if he even gets sick in the first place.

"You are a lifesaver!" Combeferre welcomes his friend through into the living room.

"I don't think a little flu bug is going to kill them, but it's no problem, honestly" Jehan smiles again, obviously in a good mood. "It gives me something to do for a little while, considering classes are over for the next few weeks and there won't be any meetings for a while."

"There will be. I'll only be out of action for a week, tops," Enjolras says hopefully from the sofa, his hand in a fist.

"I don't doubt that for a second, Enjolras," Jehan laughs, patting his friend's shoulder as he comes into the room.

"Hey, he did admit that he's 'out of action', so I think that's an improvement," Courfeyrac laughs, but regrets it as a cough builds in his throat.

"Well I really need to go now, or else I'm going to be really late," Combeferre says, and Jehan follows to wave goodbye. "Hopefully you're feeling better when I get back.

"Jesus, they do not look well at all," Jehan shakes his head and sighs.

"Just make sure they don't die until I get back. Thank's again for coming over on such short notice."

"No, no! It's no bother."

He joins the two zombies back in the living room, who both seem to have exhausted themselves from all of the excitement of Prouvaire's entrance. Enjolras seems to have sunk back even further into the sofa, his arms curled around his chest as if in a desperate attempt to warm himself up. He doesn't register Jehan's hand pressing against his warm cheek, nor does he even notice that he's subconsciously letting his face sink into the embrace. He's nauseous, to the point where there is actually a chance he may puke, but he refrains from mentioning it, knowing that the minute he has bucket in his hand or his head over the toilet, his gag reflex will almost definitely send what little he'd ate over the past few days up his throat and into his mouth, and he really does not want to throw up. He clutches his head desperately, trying to relieve the awful pain which is causing the nausea but failing miserably.

"Hey," Courfeyrac notices that Enjolras has turned even paler. "Jehan, fetch that bin over there-"

"What? Do you feel sick?" he asks, darting over for it.

"Not me. Enjolras."

Enjolras gags almost immediately as it's underneath his chin, feeling his throat burn. The only good that comes out of throwing up is that for a moment, he forgets about the pain searing through his head, even if it is only because it is now overpowered by the pain in his stomach. Despite his own state, Courfeyrac has jumped into caring mode, placing a comforting hand on his friend's back. He hovers over the bin, his stomach empty but still feeling nauseous. Jehan slips it away to go clean up, leaving Courfeyrac to stroke his hand through his hair in an attempt to help him relax.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be silly," Jehan's heart almost breaks at how defeated his poor friend looks.

"It's j-just my head hurts."

"I brought medicine, seeing as Combeferre has absolutely nothing in his house. Do you think decongestants will work?"

"Anything to get rid of-" he stops to gesture towards his nose. "This..."

Once he's taken the medicine, he trudges back through to his bed, seeing if the dark environment will help the pain at all. He's exhausted and his eyes feel like their being dragged down by anvils, but sleep doesn't come easy. Whatever medicine Jehan had brought soon works it's magic, as his fever reduces a little and the pain and nausea become less extreme. Jehan pops through to check on him and smiles at how oddly peaceful his friend looks.

"So how are you feeling?" he asks Courfeyrac, whose own illness seems to have been disguised by the severity of Enjolras' recent symptoms.

"Honestly?" he sighs, his eyes beginning to water. "Like shit. I'm such an idiot, aren't I? This is all my fault... If I'd just listened to Joly..."

"I think your fever has gone up a little," he places his hand on his friend's forehead. "That's probably why you're getting a little weepy."

Had he been left with just Enjolras for company, he'd probably be getting told to calm down and stop crying, but luckily Jehan is here. Jehan has a way with people, being able to sense exactly how to react to certain situations. He catches on quickly to changes in mood, and always reacts with the right response. He lets Courfeyrac cry, letting him dispel all of the bad feelings brought on by illness out into the air. He clutches his hand, letting him squeeze it every few seconds until he gets pulled into a hug. By the time the sobs settle down to the odd whimper, Courfeyrac is nuzzling into Prouvaire's shoulder.

"You're so much cuddlier than Enjolras and Combeferre," he whispers, intertwining his hand with Jehan's.

"Shh, don't tell them that," Jehan smiles. "They might get jealous."


	6. Importance

Combeferre is exhausted by the time he returns home from a long late night shift in the late hours of the night. He had been hoping for a quiet night as part of the emergency crash team, so he could catch up on paper work(oh the perks of being a junior doctor) and relax for a bit, but his pager seemed to beep every two seconds, dragging him away from his comfy desk to a fraught and frantic attempt at trying to restart somebody's heart. He runs a hand tiredly through his hair, hoping to curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a book before getting a good night's sleep. It doesn't help that he's been told he has a proper night shift tomorrow, which can either be slow and boring, or fast paced and exhausting.

And then it hits him. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are sick. He hates to admit it, but he resents them slightly. He's not in the mood to be worrying about the pair of them all night. Under Combeferre's orders, Jehan had sent a few updates via text message for him to see once he'd left work, but all that these messages had done was make Combeferre even more worried than he was than he left. He knows that it may be a difficult night- Enjolras' fever seems to be rising, and Courfeyrac looks worse too- but he really doesn't think it would be fair to ask more from their 'minder' and ask if he'd stay.

Thankfully, their minder is Jehan. If he'd managed to get through to Feuilly or Bahorel or Grantiare, he'd probably be dealing with the night ahead himself. Courfeyrac is cuddled into his chest, completely engulfed by a deep slumber. He instantly notices that Combeferre is exhausted as he comes through with two cups of tea.

"To thank you for helping me out today," he hands him the cup of tea.

"It was no bother. Enjolras has been sleeping for most of the day, and Courfeyrac is no trouble at all; I get free hugs, so I'm happy," he smiles, instantly helping Combeferre to relax. "Do you want me to stay tonight, just in case they get any worse? It'll let you get some sleep after a long shift."

"Are you sure? It's not particularly fair-"

"I don't mind. I've managed to get some sleep, so I'll be fine."

"You, my friend, are a star."

"Why thank you!"

"So, did Enjolras throw up again?"

"Nope- he had a little moment, but he wasn't actually sick. I think it was kind of like a migraine? He kept complaining that his head was really painful. I don't think it was actually his stomach that was bothering him."

"And Courfeyrac-"

"Hasn't thrown up. He doesn't have much of an appetite, mind you, but that might be because his throat has been bothering him."

"We'll save trying to get them to eat until tomorrow. No point trying when they're so tired."

"Do you want me to be here when you're on your shift tomorrow night-" Jehan goes to argue.

"I've already asked too much of you, Prouvaire," he cuts him off to protest. "If need be, I can drive them up to Joly's so-"

Jehan smiles and shakes his head. He honestly doesn't mind. He's had a great time, and has no problem with doing the same tomorrow. Even sick, Courfeyrac is brilliant company, and there's no denying that his hugs are amazing. He thought Enjolras was going to be as annoying as he usually is when he's unwell, but he seems to have really been hit down by whatever bug he's caught so he's not his usual stubborn self.

Before heading to his own room, Combeferre decides to go check on Enjolras. He hears his friend whisper his name, obviously not in a very deep sleep. He looks better than he was expecting, but his voice is raspier than it was before.

"How are you feeling?" Combeferre whispers.

"A little better," he coughs. "Head isn't as sore."

"Still nauseous?"

"No. Jehan's been amazing, by the way. I... I almost got sick again and he just came and sat with me for an hour and kept bringing me in glasses of water. Remind me that I owe him one. We need to buy him some amazing gift; do you think a puppy would cover it?"

"Alright, maybe we should save the discussion on how to repay Jehan for when you're _not _feverish," Combeferre yawns. "Right, I'm absolutely shattered. I'm going to leave you to get some sleep-"

"No... Don't go."

"Enjolras, I'm on night shift tomorrow night-"

"But..." his eyes widen, and for what seems like the first time in his life, he allows himself to look weak. "Sorry... I just don' feel good... I'll get to sleep better with company."

Combeferre doesn't have the heart to leave the room. It's not like Enjolras to ask for help, so he feels almost obliged to stay there due to the worry he feels about his friend. He's struggling to keep his eyes open, knowing that he'll regret this decision once he's halfway through tomorrow's shift. Enjolras takes one look at him, and his heart sinks with guilt. But he really doesn't want to be alone. He feels drained, not wanting to be by himself because the minute he doesn't have a distraction he realises he is dizzy and can't think straight. He'd normally just deal with it, curling up into his quilt and staying as quiet as possible so nobody would notice that there was anything wrong with him, but he's too exhausted to put up the act. And it's Combeferre he's talking to, so trying to hide how he's feeling would be pointless. The facade he puts on is fading; the walls he surrounds himself with are falling. Why put on a brave face and pretend to be strong, when there's no denying that he's _weak_.

"It's okay... I'm okay. Making you stay here is selfish of me."

"I'm worried about you. You don't usually admit when you're feeling awful, but I'm so tired I'd be useless. I'll send Jehan through, if that's okay?"

"I'm sorry..."

"Hey, I know you're feeling bad. There's no need to be sorry."

Jehan understands as soon as he comes back through from the room, letting Combeferre leave to collapse onto his bed. He falls asleep almost instantly, completely free from the guilt of not staying with his friend when he'd asked as soon as his head presses against the pillow. Jehan sits and waits for Enjolras to fall asleep again. He whispers poetry under his breath in an attempt to help him to relax; just simple stuff which is a far cry from the darker, more philosophical poetry he's been into recently. It works, because within ten minutes the blonde is out like a light.

Courfeyrac is still asleep on the sofa, and it seems like there is no chance that he'll stir enough for it to be possible to move him through to a comfy bed. Jehan fetches a blanket from another room and places it over the sleeping man, before finally allowing himself to rest. He's had a long day, and despite his fatigue he can't help but smile. He's never really seen these friends so vulnerable; or if he has, it's been completely wiped from his mind and replaced with memories of them as their normal selves.

Enjolras in particular is not himself, Jehan notices. He's got a reputation for being a stubborn git who often needs to be reminded to eat because he's always so focused on his studies, but today, he gives in to letting others fuss around him and understands that he has to confide in his friends if he wants to feel any better. He's a passionate man, heavily involved in campaigning against injustices faced within the world, even if his methods occasionally get him into a spot of bother. An outsider may look at him and think he is cold and unsociable, but he harbours a great adoration for all of the other men and women in the campaign group. He would go to the ends of the earth for them were they in trouble. In particular, he has a real soft spot for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They've known each other since before university, and their bond has always been something quite special. Enjolras is no doubt the leader of their friend group; he's commanding and ruthless in defending his friends and is capable of making decisions instantly, when others would be doubtful. Combeferre too is one of the of the principal members of the friend group, but his authority lies more in the trust the other men have in him. He's compasssionate and gentle, with the ability to be stern and stubborn when he has to be. And Courfeyrac? Well he just completes the circle. He's the vital link; the beacon of light that guides them and keeps them on the right path.

It takes Jehan a second to realise he has let his mind wander to a particularly emotional place as he thinks about his friends. He can't help his adoration for their friendship dynamic. It's an example of where life proves to be more poetic and beautiful than even the most delicately written poetry. And where does Jehan fit in with the friends? He's the counsellor. Whilst Combeferre is usually the first person they turn to when they need help, Jehan is usually the one who'll notice when something is wrong. He understands people, and whilst this talent may often upset the likes of Enjolras who prefers to remain enigmatic, there's no denying that his brilliant ability to perceive how they are feeling has saved them from hitting rock bottom many times before.

That's the thing about their friendship group; every single person in the back room of the student cafe plays an important part. When one is missing, the group never feels complete.


	7. Courfeyrac Is Fussy

**A little bit of the others are in this chapter, plus a bit of grantaire/enjolras:)! oh and the guest who sent a review; aha the 'ysssssss' made my day so thank you:')**

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Despite the fact that no meeting has been called, and no plans has been created, the remaining members of the friendship group somehow manage to gather themselves in the back room of the student cafe tonight. It was as if they'd been pulled by some magnetic force, wandering aimlessly around the town with nothing to do until they subconsciously turned up to the place they knew best.

It is much quieter than usual. Grantaire, Bahorel and Feuilly are there, and Eponine has joined them for once, along with Marius and Cosette. Of course, other students are there, but not many of the friends converse much with them. Although they came to the meetings to join with the campaign, most of them were nothing more than acquaintances.

"It's so quiet without the others here," Cosette states. "I'm not actually sure I like it."

"It makes no sense because they-" Marius pauses to point towards the other men. "Are the loud ones."

However, the three men are actually quite quiet. Grantaire is sitting alone, his eyes fixated on the sketchbook in front of him, and for once his half full bottle of beer is left on the table in front of him.

"What are you drawing?" Eponine suddenly appears with her hands on his shoulders, making him jump a little.

"Just doodling," he smiles, closing his sketchbook over and picking up his drink. "What's up?"

"I'm surprised to see you here tonight, actually," she grins, taking a seat opposite from him.

"And why's that?"

"You know why."

"Because Enjolras isn't here? Come on, Ep. This isn't a meeting which I couldn't give two shits about; it's a bunch of friends having a drink together."

"Gee, you're not in a good mood tonight-"

"And anyway, you're one to talk about unrequited love... You've been making googly eyes at Marius all night."

"I have not-" she shakes her head. "Look I'm sorry. I just think you should speak to him and tell him how you feel."

"He hates me, Ep."

"He doesn't hate you."

"Well he resents me. He... He looks down on me. Can you quit it with the therapy, already?"

"Okay, I'll leave you alone..."

The group stay in the cafe until the late hours of the night, Bahorel and Feuilly heading over to Grantaire's flat afterwards. It's too quiet for their liking, without Enjolras standing on top of a table screaming some speech at the top of his lungs, and without Joly's loud laughter bellowing throughout the room, and Courfeyrac's flirtatious jokes being targeted at every single person in the room.

In Combeferre's flat, Jehan is the first to wake up. He plans to set about the task of getting the two 'sickies' to eat, but soon realises that Combeferre's food supply is running low. It's too early for him to make a run to the shop, so he wastes an hour or two by checking on the others and delving into Combeferre's impressive book collection(the man has enough books to last a lifetime, but not enough food in the fridge?). Courfeyrac wakes up next, no worse and no better than the day before. His voice is practically gone, reduced to nothing but a croaky whisper.

"I'm going to run down to the shops," Jehan asks as his friend sits up. "Do you want me to bring back anything specific for breakfast?"

"Can I come with?" he yawns. "I could do with some fresh air."

"I don't know if Combeferre would be very happy with that-"

"Screw him. This house is too stuffy..."

"I'll ask him. I'm not dragging you out for it to make you feel worse."

Luckily, Combeferre is awake and making a cup of coffee in the kitchen by the time Jehan goes to ask. He agrees, but only as long as Courfeyrac is well wrapped up and they go straight there and straight back. He doesn't want to be peeling Courfeyrac off the floor just because he's overdone it. So about half an hour later, Jehan helps Courfeyrac- who is wearing one of the thickest coats he owns and a scarf- shuffle into his car. Jehan doesn't really understand Courfeyrac's logic in coming with him considering he's still quite ill, but he knows his friend could have only spent so long(a day) holed up in a house before going stir crazy.

"You're an idiot," Jehan shakes his head and laughs. "I'm going to be dragging you through the supermarket."

"Hey, I'm a picky eater and I just want to make sure you buy-"

"Oh Courf, you couldn't be a picky eater even if you tried. You'd eat anything."

"Well I'm going to be a picky eater today," he fake pouts, crossing his arms.

The fresh air helps a lot. The cool air seems to open his airways a little, and he regains some of his voice so he doesn't sound like a heavy smoker any more. Stretching his legs as he gets into the supermarket also helps, making him a little less shaky as Jehan pushes the shopping trolley over to him so he has something to lean on as they walk around.

"So what is it we're buying?" Jehan turns to him. "Soup?"

"Don't like soup," Courfeyrac smiles.

"You love soup!"

"I don't like soup today."

"Fine, what will Enjolras want?"

"Eggs."

Courfeyrac pretends to be fussy, turning his nose up at everything Jehan suggests(although Jehan's suggestions become questionable later on as he begins to play along). He eventually agrees on cheap instant noodles(and Jehan buys soup just in case) just as they notice a familiar face.

"Eponine!" Jehan smiles. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hey," she grins back. "Jeez Courf, shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Nope," he smirks, but the giant sniff he makes afterwards says otherwise. "You think I trust Jehan to buy good food?"

"Jehan, take him home. He looks like he's about to collapse."

"_He _has a name. And _he _is standing right here listening to everything you say."

"We missed you both last night," Eponine laughs.

"You partied without us?" Courfeyrac pretends to look sad.

"Aw, I'd hug you but..."

"Don't tempt him, Ep," Jehan giggled. "He's even cuddlier than usual when he's sick."

"I'm going to go know so I don't catch, you know, the plague. Get well soon, Courf."

Courfeyrac seems a little subdued as Eponine walks away. It's not that he suddenly feels worse, or that he's grown tired from the trip out. Jehan notices, but knows not to push Courfeyrac for an explanation; and besides, he catches on to what's wrong pretty quickly anyway. Courfeyrac craves the company of his friends; a day and the prospect of at least another week away from them and already he misses it. Missing out on a night with them does nothing more than put him in a horrible mood.

With his initial optimism ripped away from him, the enthusiastic adrenaline which was keeping him going begins to fade away. His voice is hoarse again, and Jehan can't help but notice as he clutches his hand towards his aching throat. He rushes him towards the checkout so they can finish up and just go home, quickly getting to the car. Courfeyrac falls asleep the instant he sits in the car, and Jehan has to coax him gently into waking up so they can go back inside.

"You're fever is higher," Combeferre notes as Courfeyrac stumbles towards the sofa. "I knew letting you go would be a bad idea."

"It wasn't the going out," Jehan pulls Combeferre aside. "We met Eponine. He's just a little disheartened that he missed a night out with the others is all."

"So... time for breakfast!" he smiles, taking the bags from Jehan.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras groan in unison.


	8. Panic and Magic

**Warning, this chapter does contain a panic attack kind of thing, so if that is difficult for you to read I'd suggest being a little wary about reading it and skip towards the "..." where it transfers back to the Enjolras/Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Jehan narrative.**

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Joly, contrary to the belief of those who only focused on his hypochondriac tendencies, is one of the happiest people you'd ever meet. The worrying may make him a little out of sorts, but those moments aren't as common as you may think. Most of the time, even when he thinks he's coming down with a cold, he'll laugh heartily with his friends and dance and sing and drink until his heart is content. He laughs at his anxious tendencies, letting his friends make a joke of it and making a joke of it himself. And anyway, laughter is the best medicine.

That's not to say he doesn't still have his moments. For a man who spends a lot of time thinking about his health, it's no wonder that he loses his jolly persona when he really is ill. Although he was in an okay mood initially, a day into being ill he just can't take it any more. He can't breathe properly, he feels like his head's been wrapped in cling film, his stomach rumbles with something other than hunger. It works up on him, the virus sneaking its way through his cells slowly, before delving in for a sneak attack.

Bossuet can't help but notice his companion's change of mood. He's not quiet any more; he's whiny and clingy and so far from his usual self that he can't help but think that his friend may have been replaced. The time between these kinds of moods is usually so long that they can't remember he was ever like this.

"Hey," Bossuet sighs. "It's okay."

"B-b-but..." he mumbles, feeling his chest tighten with nerves.

These panic attacks were not a common occurrence. They only ever happened when Joly was truly and utterly ill, which was actually not quite as often as you'd think. This was why he was so scared of getting ill; the avoidance of illness had more to do with the avoidance of the terrible fear than the actual affliction which bothered him. Bossuet and Musichetta's company often helped, but nothing really could be done to calm him down completely except waiting it out.

He curls up into the sofa, pulling the blanket further around him in attempt to shield himself and use it's comfort to help him calm down. He breathes as slowly as he can, which is difficult when he can't breathe through his nose and when his chest is wheezy. It's not even his thoughts that are making him anxious; he can't even think. He just feels scared for what feels like no apparent reason; his muscles tensing, his stomach convulsing, his pulse quickening. His eyes are watery and itchy, and he can't help from curling his hands into fists and he's shaky. He's just scared. Horrifyingly scared.

"Shh," Musichetta lulls gently. "Just wait it out. You'll feel better in a bit."

His whimpers slowly dull down to silence as the pace of his breathing evens, and he snuggles into Musichetta. She runs a hand through his hair, noticing his fever's gone up a bit. His hand reaches out, searching for Bossuet to join in on the hug; he needs as much warmth and comfort as he can get. This is usually how they usually target the aftermath of a panic attack; if there was anything he's learned from his years of knowing Courfeyrac, it's that cuddles were the second best medicine after laughter. The two of them are the only ones who have seen Joly like this; partly because his panic attacks don't happen often, and partly because he trusts them more than he trusts anyone else in the world.

They don't push him into speaking about it; he'll speak about it if he needs to later on. He just needs to relax now, and focus on getting better. Bossuet leaves to run down to the shop, and Musichetta remains on the sofa, stroking her fingers through his hair.

The anxiety induces a strange nausea in his stomach. It's a fragment of his imagination, but that doesn't mean he isn't feeling real pain. It's not a desperate 'I'm going to throw up' kind of nausea; it's more of a horrible knot underneath his ribcage that he can't stop thinking about.

"Do you want a glass of water?" Musichetta smiles gently.

"Mmhmm," he nods. "Sorry."

"Don't be silly Jol', you're not well," she clutches his hand as she stood up. "You'll feel better in a few days."

"Have you heard how the others are doing?" Joly tries to change the subject as he sips at his water. "Are any of the others sick?"

"Enjolras and Courfeyrac are just as bad as you have been. None of the others are sick yet; I assume Combeferre and Jehan will be at some point considering they've been looking after the pair of them, and it's only a matter of time before the rest of them get it considering that it's going around."

...

"Come on, you have to eat something," Combeferre shoves his head back in distress at trying to get Enjolras to agree to eat _something _at least.

"Fine," Enjolras sighs. "Omelette."

"And Courf will want the shitty noodles we picked up," Jehan laughs.

"Yep," Courfeyrac nods, feigning the best smile he can.

Courfeyrac does admirably, finishing the bowl of flavourless noodles. It's the closest thing to sick food that he- as the fussy eater he has chosen to be today- could have chosen, and probably the only thing other than soup he could swallow. Enjolras is less successful, complaining that the food just doesn't taste right; the bread is too sweet with that horrible maltose taste and the eggs are too salty.

"You're eating _something _at some point today," Combeferre points at him. "Don't put it off."

"But if I eat I'll probably puke again-" he sighs.

"You were only sick because of your headache. And wouldn't you prefer bringing up food rather than throwing up on an empty stomach and having that horrible bile taste in your mouth?"

"Point taken but... I just can't taste anything properly," he points to his congested nose, before giving his best attempt to punch Courfeyrac in the shoulder. "Uh, I actually hate you Courfeyrac. Couldn't you just have let Joly be ill and then we wouldn't be in this mess."

"How come you two never get sick?" Courfeyrac frowned in the direction of his two well friends. "Oh, and why do I have a funny feeling I've passed it on to Eponine?"

"Reasonable exposure to illness means that my immune system has already got the antibodies-" Combeferre began to go off into a tangent about the medical reasons as to why they hadn't caught the mutant evil virus yet.

"Magic!" Jehan interrupts and grins.


	9. Exhaustion

If there's anything Combeferre hates, it's night shifts. It's not that the patients aren't pleasant, or that the either constant or non-existent crash bleeps are stressful, or that his training post means he spends most of his time doing paper work; it's the struggle to stay awake. Despite napping consistently through the day to prepare himself, by the half-way point of the shift he's usually struggling to keep his eyes open. Luckily- or maybe not so luckily- his pager bleeps just as he's about to slump down onto his desk, sending him into an adrenaline rush to try and restart the person's heart.

He's exhausted by the time he gets home in the early hours of the morning, and the shift has been a particularly bad one. They'd lost the patient they were trying to revive. He's still just a junior doctor, so he's not completely developed the thick skin in dealing with things like this. He's emotional as he drives home, but he blinks away the odd feeling in his eyes and swallows down the lump in his throat as he pushes the door open gently, just in case the others are sleeping.

"Morning," Jehan grins from the sofa tiredly.

Jehan's already had a rough morning. The virus seems to have shifted from Enjolras' head to settle comfortable in his chest, forcing the poor man to go without the night's sleep he so desperately needed. He trudged through about midnight, knowing that Jehan would still be up, reading something from Combeferre's impressive collection or watching something on the television. He bombards him with complaining, coughing and spluttering in between his rants. Cough syrup helps a little, but Jehan is out of his depth; he doesn't know how to help. Courfeyrac too wasn't himself during the night, having had enough of being unwell and useless, and gotten himself into a little bit of a teary mess. Thankfully, the pair finally manage to get some sleep, leaving Jehan to relax for a bit.

"Rough shift, I'm guessing?" he looks up at Combeferre as he comes in. "I know I may be overstaying my welcome, but I'll be here today if you want to go catch up on sleep?"

"You've... You've done more than enough," it's probably just the mood he's in, but Combeferre is genuinely moved by his friend's gesture. "You don't have to stay. They don't need looked after, they're adults..."

"Combeferre?" Jehan raises an eyebrow, sensing something is wrong. "You seem on edge."

"Bad day," he smiles sheepishly, the grimace fading after only a second. "I was called to help revive some guy... He'd um... Been on the ward I've been working on. We couldn't revive him. We were trying and then my senior asked if we should call it. The horrible part is they... they know the answer. They know that the person is dead..."

"I'm staying here tomorrow, don't protest. You need a cup of tea."

"No, I'll make it myself," Combeferre sighs as he runs a hand through his hair. "You've spent all day looking after Courfeyrac And Enjolras-"

"Combeferre, I don't mind," Jehan smiles gently. "You don't have a shift for the rest of the week do you?"

"Nope. That's my training done for the next few weeks actually, and when I'm back we'll be in lectures for a while."

"Then catch up on your sleep. Night shifts must be exhausting."

"You haven't slept since last night though-"

"I'm perfectly awake."

"And the other two will be up in a moment-"

"It's fine. Enjolras won't be up for a few hours; cough medicine makes him sleepy and he's hardly slept the past couple of days. And Courfeyrac-even when he's well- doesn't usually surface until around midday. I'll nap on the sofa."

"And you're missing out on seeing the others-"

"It would be boring at the cafe without you three. It's actually been pretty relaxing for me, so don't worry. Just go sleep and I'll handle everything.

Despite what Jehan had thought, Enjolras surfaces just as Combeferre shuffles through to his room. He's worse, if that was even a possibility. Jehan moves his soaked blonde fringe away from his face, and rests his cool hand on his friend's burning head. He strokes his finger above his brow gently before lifting his hand, smiling sympathetically towards the man. It's unlike Enjolras to actually seek out and ask for comfort, but this illness seems to have ripped the boundaries he usually sets himself away from him. He coughs heavily into his balled fist as he refuses another dose of cough medicine.

"It'll help," Jehan sings, trying to make it sound a little more appealing.

"It just made me wheezy," Enjolras shrugs, shivering as he shoved his head into his hands. "Sorry, I'm a stubborn little shit, aren't I?"

"You're ill; you're allowed to be. Would you let me take your temperature and fetch some paracetemol? I'm worried that your fever is a little high."

"Don't think I could swallow pills; throat hurts from coughing."

"Good thing I bought the liquid paracetemol yesterday; Courf said the same thing."

Jehan fetches the medicine and thermometer from the kitchen, and sits cross legged facing Enjolras. It takes him a while to figure out how the ear thermometer works, and Enjolras has to help, but finally it works.

"Thirty eight point five- definitely high," he sighs as he hands Enjolras the spoon of medicine. "You're really feeling rubbish aren't you?"

"I hate Courfeyrac."

"Are you going to try and eat something today?"

"Try is the word."

"Soup? I know it's a kind of strange thing to have for breakfast but it's your standard sick food."

"Go for it," Enjolras shrugs; he's kind of hungry now that he thinks about it.

He finishes the small bowl, but shakes his head quickly when Jehan asks if he wants any more. He's done with being ill. He hates it. He just wants for there to be a meeting, and for him to be able to stand on top of a table, screaming some speech about 'equal rights' from his lungs. Just as he's about to let sleep take over his aching body, he hears Combeferre's worried voice entering the living room.

"Jehan, I'm going to need a little help here," he sighs. "Courf's just been sick."

He walks through to the living room, his arm strategically supporting the sick man; the only thing stopping him from collapsing to the ground underneath his shaking legs. Combeferre quickly grabs the bin from the other side of the room and sets it on Courfeyrac's lap. The man frowns pathetically, and Enjolras sends him a look of empathy. Combeferre sighs deeply as he wanders through to the kitchen to fetch the cleaning supplies.

"You're warmer," Jehan notes, running a hand through Courfeyrac's hair. "Still nauseous?"

"Kinda," he mumbles, still feeling that strange lump in his throat. "Uh..."

"You're okay..." Jehan instinctively jumps towards Courfeyrac's side, sitting on the edge of the sofa and wrapping his arm around him as he dry-retched.

"S-s-sorry," he mutters incoherently, shoving his head into Jehan's chest.

"You'll feel better soon, don't worry..." he smiles gently, twirling Courfeyrac's soaked curls between his fingers.


	10. Enjolras' Mistake

_**This is getting...long. But hey, it's so fun to write; what is it that's so addicting about writing/reading sickfic? Also, thank you to everyone who has read this, because it means a lot to hear what people think about my writing. I had quite a bit written then it logged me out twice, so some of it's a crappy rewrite:( (twice... :( TWICE! two bloody rewrites...)  
**_

* * *

Enjolras frowns towards Courfeyrac and sighs. He had thought the vomiting had only been because of his headache, but Courfeyrac's head doesn't seem to be bothering him. He crosses his fingers, hoping he'll be spared another bout. He feels much better after food, and makes a mental note to listen to Combeferre's advice more often. The wheeze in his chest has gone, making his coughs less frequent and less desperate, and his fever has dropped drastically. Okay, maybe he's not feeling _great, _but the sheer difference in how he feels makes him feel as if he's feeling brilliant. He knows Combeferre and Jehan will kill him once they find out what he is planning to do, but Combeferre's busy cleaning puke off the floor, and Jehan's a little tied up with Courfeyrac, so it's not as if they're going to get the text he sends out to everyone any time soon; _early morning meeting in half an hour. _

He's an idiot. He knows he's an idiot. But he's feeling better, and it's not as if a little sniffle-okay maybe it's more than a little sniffle...- is going to kill him. The sooner he gets back into the land of living the better. He sneaks out the front door, failing to disturb Courfeyrac because he's too out of it, and Jehan because he's finally managing to catch up on the sleep he missed from staying up all night with the pair of them.

Grantaire is the first to appear, mostly because his apartment isn't very far from the cafe. Enjolras wasn't really expecting Grantaire's company, considering the bar weren't allowed to sell them alcohol during their morning meetings. He feels bad for thinking so low of Grantaire, but it's not as if he exceeds expectations very often. There's been too many times where Grantaire has shown up at a meeting already out of his mind, only to get even more drunk as the night gets on, ending most often in vomit or arguments or full blown fist fights.

"Well don't you look the picture of health?" Grantaire smirks. "No actually, you look better. Much better."

"I feel it too," Enjolras smiles; Grantaire seems to be tolerable today, and he's in a good mood so the usual hostility between the pair is nowhere to be found. "The past few days have been_ hell_."

"That bad?" he almost wants to cover his mouth, just in case it's still catching. "It's been... quiet without you."

"You...You of all people missed me?" the corner of his lips turns up a little, and Grantaire struggles to keep himself calm. "I don't believe that for a second."

"I...Uh... Yeah?"

Grantaire's defeated. That's it. Enjolras hates him. Enjolras thinks he hates him back. He runs a hand through his hair walking towards his usual place in the corner, his hand shaking partly with the sudden need for alcohol, and partly with the gut-wrenching hatred he suddenly feels towards himself. He's an idiot. He know's he's an idiot. He pulls out his sketchpad as a distraction; as a tool to get Enjolras to leave him alone because Grantaire feels he's ruined the chance of the proper conversation he so desperately wants to have.

But he can't draw. It's like his hand has cramped, and every time he tries to put his pencil to the crisp clean, blank white page his mind goes blank, his hand rendered incapable of drawing anything but a squiggly line. He doesn't know what to draw. His mind is jumbled, filled to the brim with the same reoccurring thoughts. _Enjolras. _If he was sober... If he wasn't such an idiot... If he just wasn't so decrepit. He doesn't even know why he keeps on coming back to these meetings. When he doesn't attend, he feels so much better in himself. He dances, or he draws; he sometimes even dabbles in writing, even if his ideas aren't always perfectly constructed. In no way is his life a good life, his alcoholism having roots in a lack of happiness which stems from several things; loneliness, unemployment, a disjointed family to say a few, but then again, these may be exaggerations as a result of his cynical nature. But these meetings make him feel worse. They drain him completely, feeding him more alcohol and reminding him of just one of the reasons why his life is awful.

"So you're feeling much better then?" he finally speaks, shaking the thoughts away from his head.

"A lot better," he coughs into his hand, but the cough isn't half as bad as how it had been in the early hours of the morning. "Well, a bit better."

"So what is today's meeting about?"

"I'm not actually sure. Since when do you listen during meetings anyway?"

Enjolras doesn't mean for his words to come out so sharp, but they drive like daggers into Grantaire's stomach nonetheless. Enjolras' awkward smile just drives the knife in further, and he can feel the knife turn slowly in his abdomen. Grantaire admits his defeat, slumping down onto a chair, wishing he'd remembered that the cafe doesn't sell alcohol in the morning so he could've brought some of his own.

After an hour of waiting, they soon realise that it's unlikely anyone will be coming. Enjolras turns on his phone, expecting the overload of texts from Jehan and Combeferre(and one guilt trip text from Courfeyrac). As much as he hates to admit it, he's made a mistake coming to the cafe. His chest feels heavy, and the coughs are much harsher and much more frequent than they had been an hour before, and he really is not in the mood to drive back home. He can't call Combeferre, because he'll have to admit that he was wrong. He considers asking Jehan, but Combeferre would know that Enjolras would've asked for help. His only real option is to ask Grantaire, and although he isn't open to the idea, Grantaire is definitely sober and he managed to drive himself to the cafe in one piece this morning. He must be ill, considering the fact he even lets Grantaire drive his car so that Combeferre wouldn't find out that the trip out had made Enjolras find out(it does mean Grantaire has to walk back to the cafe, but he insists that he doesn't mind).

"Jesus," Grantaire shakes his head, focusing on parking the car outside Combeferre's flat. "You've gone from looking fine to looking like death within minutes."

"I'm fine," Enjolras mumbles. "Uh... Thanks for the lift."

He stumbles through the door only to be met with Combeferre's stern look. He tries his best to stifle the coughs building in his throat, and makes an attempt to not seem as ill as he really felt. Combeferre fires into a lecture full of 'I told you so', before noticing that his friend really doesn't look well. But it's too late. Enjolras' eyes sting with the pulsing headache brought on from all the headache. He's dizzy, and clutches his head desperately to try and get rid of the feeling. Combeferre picks up on what's about to happen, rushing over to make sure he doesn't hit his head as he collapses under his shaky legs.

"You're alright..." he sighs, helping Enjolras to sit on the sofa.

"W-w-what?" Enjolras squints.

"You fainted. I'd call you an idiot and say I told you so, but I don't think that would be fair in your current state."


	11. Jehan Gives The Best Cuddles

"Are you still dizzy?" Combeferre asks, his hand gently places against Enjolras cheek. "You're warm. Very Warm."

Combeferre takes this opportunity to give Enjolras the quick check up he'd given to Courfeyrac earlier that morning, as they waited on the eventual return of Enjolras. The thermometer is shoved into his ear, the obtuse beeping making his headache even worse. High, as expected. Pulse; fine, thankfully. He even fetches his stethoscope from the other room, pressing the cold metal against Enjolras' back to listen to his lungs. They sound okay; wheezy, but that was nothing shocking, but thankfully he can't hear a crackle, meaning he doesn't have pneumonia.

"M'okay," he mumbles. "Just maybe shouldn't have gone out so quickly."

"I'll save the lecture for when you're a little more... awake?"

"How's Courf?" he speaks after a long coughing fit, pointing to the man curled up on the sofa underneath a blanket, with his head on Jehan's lap. "M'sorry."

"Pretty sick," Jehan sighs, running his hand through Courfeyrac's hair. "It'll be a while before either of you are actually fit for a meeting."

Although Enjolras looks ill, it's nothing compared to Courfeyrac. He's fast asleep, having succumbed to the lethargy that the illness has brought. He's white as a sheet, although his cheeks are bright with fever. Jehan's just happy he's stopped being sick(or trying to be sick) for the past hour or so. He stirs, finding it difficult to keep sleep around for longer than minutes at a time because of the nausea building in his throat.

"Can you quit it with the lectures?" Enjolras whines. "M'gonna go sleep."

"Combeferre, you still haven't slept since yesterday. Enjolras and Courf are okay. Go get some sleep," Jehan insists.

"You've hardly slept either, and you don't even have to be here!" Jehan laughs, shaking his head.

"Stop feeling guilty. I've napped throughout the day, so I have slept actually. Just go sleep. We'll be fine."

Jehan notices that Courfeyrac has woken up, and helps him to sit up. Courfeyrac is far from his usual self. Even throughout the past few days, he'd still been bubbly and joking around, but today he's silent, staring at Jehan with big glassy eyes, looking as if he's about to cry. His tendency to be clingy and cuddly hasn't faded though, as he reaches out his hand. Jehan clutches it gently, stroking his thumb against his knuckles.

"Feeling any better?" Jehan asks carefully.

"No," Courfeyrac whispers.

Jehan understands, not pushing Courfeyrac for any further explanation. He loves Courfeyrac; he really does. He's not sure in what way; they're just well matched; two people destined to be in each others' company, whether it be as friends or something more. Jehan is without a doubt the quieter of the two men; he'll go with the flow and take on whatever life throws at him. He's emotional, but his emotions are usually very internal; only ever seeing the light of day in his writing. Courfeyrac is much more open; if you hear somebody laughing at one of the meetings and it isn't Joly, it will probably be Courfeyrac's infectious laughter that you are hearing. Whilst he's usually happy, being over-emotional also means he gets upset quite easily; he's not afraid to have a good cry.

Which is what he's doing now; crying. His head hurts already, so crying really isn't ideal, but he can't help it. His tears are quiet, the only sound being a whisper of a whimper underneath his breath. Jehan pouts with sympathy, wiping away the tears from his friend's face with a tissue and holding his hand even tighter.

"And you were feeling better yesterday!" Jehan tries to cheer him up a little. "I'm blaming the noodles."

"I'll just have soup from now on," Courfeyrac does his best to smile; and does admirably. "Thank you for being here. I-I... I don't really want you to go."

"I'll be here for as long as I need to be, even if Combeferre isn't too happy about it."

"I-I... I like your company."

"If Combeferre insists once more that I don't have to be here to help, I'm taking you to my flat. I love him, but he's a worrywart!"

"He has to be, with Enjolras as his best friend; if Enjolras ins't going to worry about himself, somebody else has to do it for him. Enjolras; he's okay?"

"If Combeferre doesn't murder him... That guy just can't sit still and be sick like a normal person can he?"

"Sitting still and being sick like a normal person isn't fun."

"I know," He smiles calmly. "But you'll feel better soon."

"Thank you for sitting with me and distracting me."

"It's no problem; you're my best friend, and you're very good company. And you know I love your cuddles."

"And you don't insist on having to talk... You're just there."

They sit talking for a while, and Courfeyrac's skin regains some colour as he is distracted. Courfeyrac talks about class, and how much he'll miss it over the holiday because he'll have nothing to do. They talk about some of the others in the campaign group too; they haven't seen them for a while, and they're beginning to miss them. It's a rare occasion that they don't all see each other at some point during a week, so it's difficult for them all to adjust. They're pretty sure the virus will travel around and affect all of them at some point in one way or another, so it's going to be a while before they're all together again, even after Enjolras, Joly and Courfeyrac are better. Courfeyrac doesn't seem to mind; whilst he loves all of the others, as long as he's in the company of his favourite three he'll be satisfied for a while.

"So what is it that's happening with your new flat?" Jehan asks, trying to keep his friend's mind off of how he felt.

"It was meant to be finished just as I moved out of my old one, but it'll be another month before I can move in," he sighs. "So here is home for a bit."

"And Enjolras-"

"He gets lonely in his house; all that room and nobody to share it with. He says it's because he wanted to study, but really he just wants to be in our company."

"It's been nice getting a chance to talk to him. He provides good conversation."

"When he's not battering on about politics... he's boring as hell sometimes."

"I quite like politics, so I don't mind."

"You're boring too," he prods him tiredly in the shoulder.

"But you love me!" Jehan grins. "Do you want to try and eat something? I'd understand if you don't but I'd at least have something to drink if you're not feeling up to food."

"Toast?" Courfeyrac shrugs, even if the idea of food turns his stomach. "Nothing on it; just toast."

Thankfully Courfeyrac's nose is so stuffed up that he can't smell anything, so the smell of the bread doesn't trigger any nausea. He can't really taste anything either, so he's able to nibble at the toast until he's finished about half of it. He sighs, lethargically handing the plate back to Jehan and curling back up under the blanket. Food makes him feel a little better; his stomach doesn't ache with an awful emptiness any more, and he's a little less light-headed than he was before. However, the energy boost soon fades, as he sits up, feeling his stomach churn horribly.

"Just fluids from now on, I think," Jehan rubs circles into his back as he doubles over the bin.

"I'm never being in a room with Joly again," Courfeyrac slumps into Jehan's shoulder. "I'm not risking it."


	12. An Injury and A New Infectee

_**I kind of wanted to get away from Enjolras/Combeferre/Jehan/Courfeyrac for a bit to get a chance to write some of the other characters so here we go; a little bit of Joly and Grantaire.**_

* * *

When it happens, Joly isn't even surprised; in fact, he's surprised it hasn't happened already. The almighty thud awakens him from his deep fevered slumber, and he sits up abruptly, trying to decipher where the sound came from. It takes him a minute to shake the sleepy daze and notice that Bossuet has tripped _oh so gracefully_ over the leg of the coffee table and flat onto the floor. He registers the guffawing laughter as he watches his friend sit up, examining his already swelling ankle.

"Four days without an injury," Musichetta laughs. "Bossuet, you've set a new record!"

"Are you alright?" Joly- who is feeling much better but is still by no means feeling one hundred percent- switches into doctor mode, kneeling down beside his friend.

"Just a bad sprain," Bossuet shrugs, grinning as he stumbles towards the sofa to let Joly take a better look at his foot.

"A bad sprain? It's a _really _bad sprain, Bossuet..."

"I'm fine!"

"No, you're injured. And badly."

"And you're ill."

"You two are pathetic sometimes," Musichetta chuckles. "Just let me look after both of you; god knows you're both awful at looking after yourselves."

"I'll fetch him an icepack-" Joly goes to sit up, but Musichetta pushes him back down.

"No, you're still quite ill," she says, placing a hand on his forehead. "Still quite feverish... I'll get you an icepack to cool that temperature down too."

"I knew it would happen at some point," Bossuet breaks into a fit of laughter.

"You need to learn to be more careful," Joly shakes his head, giggling carefully to avoid aggravating his chest.

"It's not so much that I'm not being careful; it's just my rotten luck."

"Well rest up; don't go straining yourself. It'll be safer if you just don't try and do anything."

...

Grantaire's head is spinning by the time he arrives home. He went back to the cafe for a bit; only Feuilly showed up for the meeting, so they spoke for a short while before going their separate ways. As soon as he's away from all of the distractions and through the door of his apartment, it hits him suddenly. The words spiral through his head; _'you of all people missed me?', 'since when do actually listen, anyway?'. _He feels his heart sink away from its safe place between his lungs, and his breath catches in his throat.

He needs a drink. He really needs a drink. Enjolras hates him. Everybody hates him. Who wouldn't hate him? The thoughts turn his brain to mush. He slugs back a shot of whisky which is all he has left in his house, which burns its way down his oesophagus. He knows he should probably try and stop his drinking habits, but he's past the point in caring now. And anyway, it's not as if any of his friends would ever be able to grasp the idea that Grantaire doesn't necessarily have to come with the bottle included; in Grantaire's mind, he thinks Enjolras in particular would find it difficult to think of him as anything more than a lousy cynical drunk.

There's a knock at the door, and he grunts tiredly, not in the mood for visitors. He gets up to answer it nonetheless, revealing Eponine at the door.

"Hey," he sighs, taking into account her tired looking appearance. "Are you okay?"

"Courf passed on his cold," she shrugs, sniffling a little. "Hopefully it stays as just a cold though; I was on the phone to Jehan earlier and Courfeyrac's been vomiting and everything, and Enjolras fainted-"

"No wonder," Grantaire welcomes her into his flat and signals for her to sit down. "He came into the cafe to hold a meeting looking like hell."

"Classic Enjolras, hmm?"

And he had been classic Enjolras; even though he wasn't feeling himself, he was exactly how he usually is. Dismissing the fact that Grantaire _could _be sober, and that he did actually care about showing up for meetings, he continued to put him down. They've never really got on well; Enjolras didn't agree with Grantaire's negativity, and Grantaire grows more frustrated with Enjolras' opinion of him every day.

"R?" Eponine squints towards him. "You alright?"

"I...-" he shrugs, knowing that Eponine can empathise. "I'm fine."

"I can read you like a book, Grantaire. What did he say today?"

"He thinks I don't care about anything but myself," Grantaire's voice breaks, and his eyes water with tears that have yet to fall. He thinks... I'm useless and I'm nothing more than a drunk, and I'm selfish and narcissistic and don't give two shits about any of my friends-"

"From what I'm hearing, you've misinterpreted; that's how you feel about yourself, not how he thinks of you."

"Ep, quit trying to-... You know that's what he thinks! You know that's what everyone thinks! He may have not actually said it, but it's... it's in the way he says things to me."

"Grantaire..." Eponine whispers gently, seeing her friend sink into being of a more fragile nature than his usual hardy self. "Enjolras doesn't hate you. And you shouldn't give two shits even if he does."

He sighs. They've become quite the unrequited love buddies over the past few months; its not a rare occurrence for either of them to tearfully confide in one another about their problems. Grantaire- while sometimes bothered by the fact that he actually feels close to someone for the first time in a long while- really appreciates Eponine's company; he's often lonely, even when he's sitting at the back of a cafe filled with people, yet when he's confiding in Eponine he often feels like loneliness is something non-existent. Eponine pours her soul out to him too, going over to his with the sole purpose of expressing her jealousy towards Cosette.

Grantaire isn't consoled by Eponine's words; in fact, they make it all worse. He doesn't look sad any more; he just looks emotionless, as if he doesn't even care any more. He's accepted that Enjolras will never reciprocate his feelings, and now he's just going to have to deal with it.

"Grantaire," Eponine sits down beside him, reaching over to hug him before pulling away, shocked the immense heat coming from him. "You're burning up."

"M'fine," he shrugs; it doesn't matter to him if he's ill. "Don't worry about me."

He doesn't feel ill at all. He feels low, but it's more of a sadness than a lethargy. He looks okay too; well, he looks like his usual self; his curly hair is askew, his eyes are sunken, his skin is an awful shade of white. His hands are shaking, but he's pretty sure that's down to the fact that he's in desperate need of a drink rather than from chills.

"Where's your thermometer? Do you own a thermometer?"

"Nope."

"Well your temperature's high. Very high. Maybe even hospital high," she sighs, looking worried. "I'm going to call Combeferre."

"Eponine," he grunts frustratedly. "Please just leave it."

"Grantaire, I have to-" and it's too late, because she's already on the phone to him. "Combeferre..."

"Eponine?" Combeferre sounds concerned. "You sound stuffed up-"

"I'm fine," she rushes her words. "I need help."

"What? Have you caught-"

"Grantaire's sick. Like, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a fever of forty. I thought he was just sad... Down... I don't know."

"You're at his flat, right? I'm leaving now."

Combeferre arrives within ten minutes, a bag of medical supplies clutched tightly in his hand. He had just woken up, feeling refreshed after catching up on the sleep he'd missed on his night shift. Both Courfeyrac and Enjolras are finally sleeping, and Jehan is occupied with a particularly good book he's found on Combeferre's stacked shelf, so he sneaks out quietly.

Eponine's worried now. She had thought that Grantaire's self-depreciating comments had been a result of whatever Enjolras had said to him at the cafe that morning, but now she thinks about it, maybe his tearful melt down could definitely be put down to the fever. Combeferre wanders in, and has to admit he looks awful; he's not even sure how he's still coherent. He doesn't seem to be showing any other symptoms yet; just the inability to keep his body at a safe temperature.

"Not quite forty- you're a degree out," Combeferre shakes his head. "That's higher than Courfeyrac and Enjolras have been and they're pretty damn ill."

"I feel fine!" Grantaire chucks his hands in the air.

"Eponine, you look awfully tired," Combeferre sighs. "You should head home and try and sleep off that cold... I'll take Grantaire back to mine; I don't think I should leave him alone with such a high temperature."

"No-" Grantaire tries to protest.

"Thank you, Combeferre," she smiles, waving goodbye to the pair of them.

Combeferre's flat is particularly large, so it's not as if the house is going to be crowded; there are two guest bedrooms, one with two beds in it, and he's recently placed a bed in his library room, because more often than not he'll find himself falling asleep with a book. He honestly does not mind the company of the ill men; in fact, he thrives on taking care of them. And he's really liked having Jehan around too; he's of a placid nature, and it's nice to have someone who understands the meaning of 'peace and quiet' around for once.

"You'll be sleeping in one of the guest rooms with Enjolras," Combeferre notes as he drives back to his house. "If that's okay?"

"I... Um..." Grantaire shrugs sheepishly.

"Oh I'm forgetting... You'd rather be alone? Courfeyrac and Enjolras can sleep in the other guest room, don't worry. And besides, sleeping patterns are a little all over the place at the moment."

"I'm fine, I don't know why you're making such a fuss..."

"You don't have any symptoms yet, but the fever; that's how it starts."

"It's the flu, not the plague! M'okay. It may not seem that way, but I'm capable of looking after myself."

"You sound like Enjolras," Combeferre states, a laugh building beneath his voice. "Honestly, I don't mind. Are you sure you're not feeling ill at all?"

"I'm tired. That's it."

"You're shaky-"

"I haven't had a proper drink since last night."

Combeferre doesn't believe him; he looks too ill to not be feeling ill too. The pair don't really talk; Combeferre's association with Enjolras means that they never really get a chance to. It's not so much that Enjolras and Grantaire avoid speaking to each other; it's just something that doesn't happen too often. Often, Grantaire will joke around him, or challenge whatever idealistic speech he was screaming from the top of his lungs, but other than that their discussions are often kept to a minimum. Combeferre likes getting a chance to talk to Grantaire; he's intelligent and has a witty sense of humour.

"It may not be very good medical advice," Combeferre sighs. "But I'll allow you to have something to drink, because I don't want you feeling worse because of it."

"M'sorry," Grantaire mumbles tiredly, the beginnings of a headache finally working its way into his temples. "I didn't want Eponine to call you."

"It's no bother. The house is a little crowded right now, with Courfeyrac, Jehan and Enjolras-"

"Doesn't matter..." he sighs, closing his eyes gently.


	13. Band of Sickies

"Grantaire..." Combeferre whispers, shaking his friend awake.

Despite the previous lack of symptoms, they hit Grantaire like a ton of bricks as he blinks his eyes open. His skull feels as if it's about to break through his skin, as if his brain is burning or expanding or both, and he just wants to curl up and sleep for all of eternity. His eyes sting as if his tears have suddenly turned into sulphuric acid, which is unfortunate considering those very tears are streaming down his face with how itchy his eyes feel. He'd laugh if he didn't feel so awful; the man too numb and too cynical to be shocked by what life throws at him, reduced to tears by a virus. He's not sure whether he's shaking because he needs a drink or if he's shaking because it's so freaking cold

"Hmm?" his brow is heavy with pain.

"We're here," Combeferre's voice is soft, as he is aware that Grantaire's head is sore. "Has it finally hit you?"

"Yeah," his voice is barely audible.

He can barely stand as Combeferre helps him out of the car; it's as if the heat radiating from his body has caused the muscles in his legs to melt away, leaving nothing but his spindly bones. Just as he's about to stagger onto the ground beneath the weight resting upon his weak legs, Combeferre reaches over, allowing his fellow man to fall into him and let him support his weight and clutches at his waist as they walk up the steps as the threat of a fall becomes a little larger. The pair are relieved by the time they get to the sofa, Combeferre letting out a huge sigh as he's free from Grantaire's tight grip. Paracetemol is instantly shoved into Grantaire's hand, followed by a glass water in the other. He's never been one for pills- to him, alcohol has always been the most effective pain killer- but he takes them nonetheless.

Combeferre's never seen Grantaire so weak and raw. He's of a hardy nature, with either a sarcastic smirk or a ruthless frown plastered upon his face. Of course, he's always noticed something underlying; a strange vulnerability in the corner of his eye, hidden within a surreptitious glance at their leader from his little corner of the room. This vulnerability which he is displaying seems so characteristic of him, even though it's something Combeferre would have never associated him with.

"I didn't think it was possible but you're a bit warmer," Grantaire's barely even aware that his temperature is being taken again until the loud beep rings through his ears and makes his head ache. "Have you had anything to eat this morning?"

"Nope."

"Do you want anything to eat?"

"Don't think I could..."

"It doesn't matter. Courfeyrac and Enjolras seem to have forgot the meaning of the word 'appetite' too."

"They okay?"

"They are sleeping well, so I'm hoping they're feeling at least a little better. They'll be awake soon; you'll have some company in a moment."

"A-are you sure you don't m-mind me being here? Three people to look after is a lot..."

"Why do you think I'm a medical student, Grantaire? I love looking after people; and besides, Jehan is here too."

Combeferre can tell Grantaire's getting tired; his eyelids are beginning to droop, and his body is tensed as he tries to fight of sleep.

"Would you prefer to sleep through in the guest room?" Combeferre asks, just as Grantaire is about to let sleep take over. "The others will be waking up soon, and-"

"I probably won't be able to sleep anyway," he curls up, closing his eyes tightly to ward off the awful pain bulging through his head.

He manages to succumb to the exhaustion, curling up into a position which looks a little too uncomfortable for Combeferre's liking, pulling the snot-covered blanket which has blessed the sofa for a little to long over his cold legs. Enjolras surfaces a few minutes later, still so sleepy that he thinks he's seeing things when he sees Grantaire sleeping on the couch. He sinks into the nearby armchair and properly acknowledges that the sleeping lump is real, and turns to Combeferre, waiting wordlessly for an explanation.

"Eponine called," Combeferre turns towards his friend. "He had a fever of thirty nine."

"Jesus," Enjolras shook his head.

"Feeling any better?"

"Not really."

"Never did I think I'd hear him admit to being ill..." Grantaire mumbles under his breath, a tiny smile forming on his lips. "Oh how the mighty have fallen."

"I seem to be not the only one who took such a fall," Enjolras laughs, but his breath is overtaken by a nasty choke of a cough. "I fear I may have been the person to have pulled you over the edge-"

"It wouldn't have caught that quickly- the virus has been going around, so it was only a matter of time before you got sick too."

"Wait," Grantaire sits up abruptly, his eyes wild with fever. "Clothes... I didn't bring any clothes..."

"I'm way ahead of you. I brought some. Go back to sleep."

"Why does being ill have to be so boring? Would it be stupid of me to work on an essay-"

"Yes," Combeferre shakes his head; only Enjolras would _want _to do the five page essay he'd been set a whole month before it's due. "Now don't give me those puppy dog eyes!"

"B-but..." Enjolras pouts.

"See this?" Combeferre points to the electrical appliance in front of the coffee table. "This is a television; try watching it for a change."

"That's unproductive-"

"That's the whole point. You're sick. You don't have to be productive; you _can't _be productive."

Enjolras' pouts out his bottom lip even further. Had it not been for the coughing fit which tore away at his chest, he'd have protested; he can too be productive. Maybe it's how he's feeling, but he's completely and utterly fed up. Some people can cope with being holed up in the house, with only daytime television and Internet to keep them happy, but not Enjolras; he's like a toddler(well, a toddler who enjoys writing university dissertations) who needs constant stimulation. It's times like this when Combeferre would much prefer dealing with Courfeyrac; he's quite open to the idea of watching cartoons for a few hours straight, and if not in the mood for that, he'll watch practically anything.

For that reason, he's thankful that Courfeyrac trudges through to keep him company. He never thought it could be possible for Courfeyrac's curly hair to be messier than it usually is, but it's as if it's grown another life on top of his head. He too has reached the stage of boredom; still too ill to do much else than lounge about, but free from the drowsy stage(which Grantaire fully understands at the current moment) which had blinded them from the fact they weren't doing much at all really. Thankfully for Courfeyrac has no intentions of starting his own essay(he has no real intentions of actually writing the essay at all), so the only real thing is boredom brings is the sound of his croaky complaints.

Courfeyrac wanders through further into the room, his fuzzy fevered mind not quite registering the Grantaire shaped blob lying on the couch. Enjolras considers trying to convince him that Grantaire's presence is nothing more than a fever induced hallucination, but decides against it, fully empathising with how obvious it is that Courfeyrac is definitely not feeling himself.

Combeferre can't help but notice Jean Prouvaire's absence as he sits in the all too quiet company of his ill friends. He wanders through to his little library, finding his friend fast asleep on the bed he'd recently placed in there, the book he was reading lying open on top of his chest. He carefully picks up the book, sliding a bookmark inside to keep his place before he places it on the shelf again. Just to be sure, he presses his hand gently against his friend's forehead, and is relieved when he feels the cool skin beneath his hand.

"Hmm?" Jehan's eyes flutter open as he feels the hand against his forehead.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Combeferre whispers.

"Alright, break the bad news to me, have I joined the band of sickies?"

"No you haven't; but the sickies do have a new recruit."

"Don't tell me it's you," he sits up, his eyes widening to take a proper look at his friend.

"Grantaire has joined us."

"Is he alright? He usually takes pretty ill-"

"Fever of thirty nine when I went to see him. It's lower now after paracetamol, but he's just as bad as Courf and Enjolras have been," Combeferre sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sleep well?"

"Yes," he grins. "I'm guessing you sleep here more often than you sleep in your own bed?"

"Why do you think I put a bed in here? I was sick of falling asleep on that horrible little wooden chair every night."

"Tired?" Jehan raises an eyebrow at him.

"I'm just fed up with their moaning."


	14. TranquILLity

_**Jumping on the piningjolras bandwagon, kinda? idk. **_

As the other two take a break from them, the 'sickies' share their discontent over their illness. Courfeyrac is moaning to the high heavens; or to the best of his ability, seeing has his aching throat has robbed him of the ability to speak properly. His feelings are shared with Enjolras, who wants nothing more than to be better immediately; he'd kill to be well enough to write his essay. Grantaire's not been ill long enough to share their tedium, but he's always up for a good groan, so he joins in nonetheless.

If anything, Grantaire feels a little out of place. Courfeyrac may be one of his drinking buddies, but when it comes to having a proper conversation, it's something that they've never done. They talk about sports and television shows and movies, but neither of them really know much about the other. And he can't talk to Enjolras; he just can't.

Contrary to Grantaire's belief, Enjolras doesn't hate him; far from it actually. In a strange way, he does reciprocate Grantaire's feelings; he just isn't sure how to act upon them. He's never been the kind to care much for love or romance or anything like that; the idea of being so close to somebody makes him squirm. He knows he likes Grantaire in some way or another, but it's so complicated that he just can't get his head around it. There have been too many times where Grantaire has disappointed him for him to believe that fully realising his feelings would be a good idea. And besides, he's so oblivious that he's almost one hundred percent sure that Grantaire hates his guts. He can't talk to him; he comes across as hostile, but only because putting up such an act is the only way he knows how to deal with his feelings. He just wants to be able to talk to him without walking away from the conversation feeling as if he's said something wrong. There are times when his heart pounds with admiration for the man; when he's dancing, or when he's drawing silently in the corner of the room, and pretty much any time when he's not drunk out of his mind.

This is one of those moments.

Grantaire looks peaceful. He's not sleeping as such; just drifting gently in and out of a daydreaming state. His eyes-dark underneath and red rimmed-are gently closed, the medicine having dulled most of the aches and pains. He still feels numb, but this time it's the good kind of numb; the pains have been dulled, not his mood. He doesn't feel the need for a drink; the nausea actually causes him to repel even the idea of it. He seems comfortable despite the tinge of fever which blesses his brow; it's out of character for him. He's usually so _tense _and uptight, yet it's as if everything(except the physical feelings of illness of course) has been lifted off his shoulders. He's relaxed, his muscles gently relieving their aches by sinking further into the soft cushion of the sofa.

Enjolras smiles gently, awestruck at how _beautiful _he looks. He looks past the wild hair and awfully pale skin, memorized only by the vulnerable tranquillity of the still man. Courfeyrac notices the look, but doesn't say anything. He grins to himself; it's obvious to him that the pair would be a great match. They'd fit perfectly together; the two pieces of the puzzle, like a lock to a key, like an enzyme to its substrate.

"You lot are quiet," Jehan notes as he wanders through. "You're all okay, right?"

"Fine," Enjolras grins.

"No more complaining about being bored?" Combeferre, worried about silent nature of their friends, pushes Enjolras' fringe away from his face to feel his temperature but he's even cooler than he was earlier. "You seem much better."

"Why all the silence?" Jehan asks.

They shrug; they're calm. Despite the fact that all three feel awful, their minds are free from their thoughts. Grantaire can't even remember what he was upset over earlier that day; it's as if it's been wiped clean from his mind. Opening his eyes and seeing Enjolras still doesn't re-jig his memory, so he remains content.

"They're happy, Jehan," Combeferre laughs, waving away his friend's concern. "Enjolras, I reckon you're well enough to do that essay-"

"No, it's fine," he stretches out his arms and yawns happily. "You were right. I need to chill."

"It's so strange," Jehan giggles. "Enjolras is so calm. It's just not right."

"Shut it you," Enjolras prods the man who is standing behind his chair in the stomach. "I can be calm."

"That's like saying I can be sober," Grantaire scoffs, chuckling into his pillow.

"You're sober now," Courfeyrac shrugs.

"I'm also ill, if you hadn't noticed."

"You're ill?" he sarcastically looks shocked. "And here I was, thinking you were the picture of health."

"Must be your fever," Enjolras smirks.

The joviality lingers for a while. It slowly diffuses throughout the room, slipping away from them so slow that they don't even notice until it's gone. Grantaire slips into a restless slumber, his fever rising as he sinks further into sleep. Courfeyrac's nausea has returned with a vengeance, but the lack of food in his stomach means he can't throw up. He buries his head into Jehan's shoulder, letting the poet rub circles into his back with the palm of his hand.

Combeferre watches as Enjolras brow slowly sinks. He blinks a few times, fighting off the awful feeling pulsing behind his eyes. It's not unlike Enjolras to suffer from a migraine at some point when he's ill; he's often prone to them. However, he thought the awful headache he'd had just as he was beginning to get sick had been the end of it. He couldn't have been more wrong. He tries to keep up with his conversation with Jehan, but he's become so drained that he stumbles over his words, his voice slurring over between his sentences. He tries to hide it, not wanting to admit that he's suffering because he doesn't want to accept it himself.

"Enj-" he hears Combeferre's voice, but he's finding it difficult to decipher what he's saying because his head feels like it's being blitzed in a blender. "Migraine?"

"'Ferre..."He nods tiredly, his eyes still shut.


	15. Tears and Beers

_**I wasn't planning for this chapter to be so depressing... but hey, I'm one of those people who enjoys angst so no regrets. I'm thinking the next chapter might feature Joly and co. although I'm kind of uninspired considering I've written so much about the other narrative; ideas would be welcome!**_

_**I'm having way too much fun writing this; it's the first proper fanfic I've wrote for a while because I've been writing original fiction so it's been good to get back into. I hope my characterizations are accurate, although a lot of the Les Amis don't have much to go on, so all of it is pretty much up to your own headcanon.**_

* * *

A blur. That's all everything is. Nothing more than a blur. His pulse is so quick he feels as if his heart is lodged in his neck. His thoughts all merge into one big ball of intangible nonsense. The light is ungodly bright, bouncing against his retina so violently he wishes he could tear out his eyeballs. Everything's still blurry. He doesn't want to open his eyes, but when he does, everything's distorted; reality, but a warped version of it. His head feels as if his skull is slowly cracking; as if his brain is expanding, trying to break free.

Combeferre's hand presses up against Enjolras' forehead again; his fever has spiked, giving Grantaire's thirty nine a run for his money. He ushers him through(although _'carry' _might be a more accurate word considering Enjolras can barely walk) to the single guest room, nudging the light switch with his elbow to make it darker. He flicks the blinds closed as best as he can, so no light can get through and eases Enjolras onto the bed. He's got the most effective painkillers for these headaches and a glass of water ready, which he hands to him wordlessly before walking towards the door.

"S-stay," Enjolras mumbles.

"Are you sure?" Combeferre's voice remains at a level Enjolras can easily tolerate.

"Jus'... 'til I'm asleep. Don't want to be alone."

Combeferre isn't even sure that it's Enjolras lying on the bed in front of him. Never, in his several years of knowing him, had he once heard or seen him cry. He was aware that it had happened before, but Enjolras is always careful about hiding his emotions so his tears were always left until he was alone. A sob sits awkwardly in his throat, not quite building over his words but doing a good enough job to make him sound like he's about to burst into tears. And he does. He does his best to ward off the waterworks until it boils over, and he's almost hyperventilating because he just _can't stop himself from crying_. He calms down a little as Combeferre strokes the back of his hand, but the awkward breathing brought on by the tears has bothered his chest. He coughs heavily into his elbow, tears spilling from his eyes as the pain in his head builds.

"S-s-s-sorry," he mumbles, swallowing the nausea building in his gullet.

It takes everything Combeferre has not to breakdown crying alongside him. He's watching the statue of a man crack into a million tiny fragments, and it's awful. He's never seen Enjolras like this. He'd of course had migraines before, but it seems that the eventful past couple of days have destroyed his usual barriers.

"M'gonna..." he's still curled up into a ball underneath the covers, until he jolts upright and swivels his legs over the side of the bed. "Throw up..."

Combeferre moves at the speed of light to position the bin underneath Enjolras' chin. He retches desperately, bringing up only bile and saliva. He sets it aside, deciding that he can clean it up later considering he doesn't want Enjolras to be alone(not that Enjolras would let him leave anyway). Enjolras seems to be feel a little better now that he's less nauseous, and returns to his previous position; he's lying on his side, with his legs pulled up, his arms hugging his stomach, and his head is pressed into the pillow. Combeferre waits patiently, ignoring the smell of vomit wafting its way throughout the room. His hand trails over Enjolras knuckles as he slowly descends into sleep. He waits with him for a while, to make sure he's asleep, and he uses this opportunity to clean up.

"Everything okay?" Jehan's eyes shoot up as Combeferre finally enters the living room. "You look as if you need a hug."

"He just..." and Combeferre breaks, his voice lowering to a tearful whisper. "Have you ever seen Enjolras cry?"

"Never. It's just something he doesn't do."

"He broke down. Like... full on water works."

"Migraines usually hit him hard. He's not himself; it's the fever."

"It's just I hate seeing people cry. Particularly when it's so out of character."

Jehan sighs. The pair are exhausted; they've been running about like crazy trying to look after Courfeyrac and Enjolras, and now they've also got Grantaire to keep watch of. Combeferre's not the kind to get emotional- he's generally the stoic one- yet he can't help the lump in his throat. He just wants the assurance that they will be alright for a few hours so he can sit and relax with a cup of tea and a good book. Jehan too is feeling the effects of the lack of sleep; he just wishes he could nap for an hour or two without feeling so guilty about it.

"Look," Jehan says after checking on all of the sick men who've vacated to the bedrooms(Grantaire, having decided he wants company, sharing the double room with Courfeyrac). "Everyone is fast asleep."

"Thank god for that," Combeferre runs a hand through his hair and pushes his glasses further up his nose.

"We need to try and relax. We'll be no use to them if we're too tired to function."

"Cup of tea?" Combeferre offers. "Though after such a hell of a day, all I really want is a beer."

"Beer," Jehan laughs. "I definitely want beer."

Thankfully, Courfeyrac has been too ill to break into Combeferre's supply over the past couple of days. Combeferre's not much of a drinker; he'll have a drink every once and a while, but those occasions are few and far between. And Enjolras wouldn't touch anything vaguely alcoholic with a ten foot barge pole(he's never had more than a sip of wine in his entire lifetime) so it's usually only Courfeyrac that drinks on a regular basis. Combeferre fetches the pack of four bottles from the fridge, throwing one in Jehan's direction.

"This is all I've got unfortunately," he sighs.

"We're better staying at least a little bit sober," Jehan laughs.

The pair finally get the chance to relax. Jehan goes from tense and in a bad mood, to his usual chilled out self as soon as he has a bottle of beer in hand. The past week has been far more stressful than either of them could have imagined. The illness had started as just a bad cold, but now it has progressed into a flu-like virus they are out of their depth; they can't handle the lack of sleep, the stress, the worry. Jehan had thought he'd be helping out for a day, but now he feels like he can't leave. Combeferre has stopped protesting against his help; he's not sure how he'd cope if it weren't for him being here.

"Shit," Jehan mutters. "I lost my page in my book-"

"No," Combeferre smiled. "You didn't. There's a bookmark. I'm just about to go fetch a book, I'll bring it through."

It's amazing that the two of them have the capacity to sit so still considering the fidgety nature of their two other friends. Courfeyrac is squirmy, always reshuffling to be comfier. Enjolras doesn't have the ability to sit still; whenever he's reading or writing an essay he switches positions every second, as if moving along the sofa is going to help him concentrate better. Combeferre- especially when he has a book in hand- can sit like a statue for hours upon end, the only movement being the turning of a page or pushing his glasses up his nose. Jehan somehow manages to stay in the strangest positions for longer than you'd think was even possible; tonight, he's got his knees pulled up to his chest with his feet crossed, his book balancing on top of his legs. They're relaxed, ready to face the challenges the night ahead may bring.


	16. Grantaire's Nightmare

**_A little bit more...poetic(?) than usual(hey I'm turning into Jehan!), but hey, this chapter(or at least the start of it) is more the style I usually write in(if I'm writing original fic, which I do sometimes if anybody wants to read it- i'll send a link?) so I hope you like it. _**

* * *

It's as if something is pressing down on his chest; an anvil, crushing his ribs further into his lungs. He feels like there are hands wrapped around his throat, choking him; no wait, it feels more like smoke, wrapping it's way around his neck like a boa constrictor, coiling round tighter and tighter and tighter until he just _can't get enough oxygen_. His bones shake terribly, the part of his brain responsible for regulating his temperature failing miserably at its job; confused, just like him, as to whether he's as cold as ice or burning like fire.

He's in the cafe. In his usual corner. Alcohol is pulsing through his veins. The isolation surrounds him, it's circle around the table growing larger and larger and larger until every single one of them- Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, Marius, Cosette, Eponine, _Enjolras- _is so far away from him on the other side of the room that he'd have to walk miles and miles and miles on his aching feet to reach any of them. He looks down towards his sketchbook. Pages and pages and pages of nothing. Blank white sheets; a perfect representation of his drunken mind.

The room feels fuller now. The circle shrinks. He's crowded. Every single one of them-Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, Marius, Cosette, Eponine, _Enjolras- _is standing over his shoulder. He looks down towards his sketchbook. Pages and pages and pages of everything on his mind. Accurately illustrated drawings of Enjolras detailing every little strand of hair, every little freckle, every little dent in his skin. Whole two page spreads of words in beautiful caligraphy; _I love him, I love him, I love him. _He turns the page. The other men wait fervently with apprehension. In scrawled angry handwriting; _he hates me. _

"Grantaire," Enjolras' voice is forceful, growing angrier and angrier with every syllable. "Grantaire."

"Grantaire! Grantaire! Grantaire!"

After a few attempts, he manages to open his eyes. His brow is glazed with sweat, beads of it already soaking his pillow. Courfeyrac is standing over him worriedly, still repeating his name as he shakes him into coherency. He shoots up, using his hands to sit himself up against the headboard. He's still shaking, but he's not sure whether it's because of fear or fever.

"Nightmare?" Courfeyrac croaks tiredly. "You were talking in your sleep."

"What did I say?" he manages to choke out.

Courfeyrac doesn't answer.

"Do you want me to get Combeferre? I-I'm feeling like shit and I'll be of no-"

"No it's fine..." Grantaire sighs, turning away from Courfeyrac and sighing.

Courfeyrac assumes Grantaire is sleeping and curls back up underneath the covers. Sleeping hasn't really helped; he still feels as if something is clawing its way out of his stomach. After several futile attempts to get back to sleep, he accepts his failure and stumbles through to the living room a few hours later. He heads straight to Jehan in silence and rests his head on his shoulder, peering over to look at the book he was reading.

"You had to choose something political," Courfeyrac's voice is muffled by Jehan's arm. "I see you've broke into my beer supply-"

Combeferre laughs, quickly dashing through to his library and emerging with a Harry Potter book. Courfeyrac's face lights up, the nausea fading a little.

"You know me too well," he smiles for what seems like the first time in days, accepting the book from Combeferre.

The nausea drifts away slowly as he shares his friends' relaxed state. He's calm, finally able to sit still and enjoy himself without feeling as if his stomach is going to jump out of his mouth. He's been uptight; so fraught about not wanting to throw up, that the only thing running through his mind has been _shit, I'm going to puke, shit I'm going to puke, shit I'm going to puke. _The stillness of his companions contributes a lot to settling his stomach too.

"How's Enjolras?" he asks.

"Don't even ask," Combeferre waves his hand, laughing half-heartedly. "Migraine. A bad one at that."

"He's sleeping now though," Jehan sighs. "He'll feel better once he wakes up."

"I'm going to go check on him. I'll be back on a bit."

Enjolras is still sleeping as he tiptoes through, although ever the light sleeper, he begins to stir as soon as the door is nudged open. Combeferre wanders over cautiously, doing his best to be as silent as he possibly can. Upon closer inspection, he looks a lot better. Some of the colour has returned back into his cheeks, and the hot reek of fever has vanished from the room.

"Combeferre?" Enjolras sits up. "Thank you."

"Are you feeling any better?" Combeferre whispers.

"Much," he smiles gently. "Head still hurts, but I'm not nauseous and I'm not sensitive to the light any more."

"I'm glad to hear," he places his hand against Enjolras' cheek. "You're much cooler; I was really worried earlier."

"M'sorry for..."

"There's no need to apologize. You were in pain, and with such a high fever it was no wonder that you weren't yourself. All that matters is that you're feeling much better now."

Enjolras sighs heavily. Now that he's coherent enough to recall what had happened, he can't quite get his head around it. He's embarrassed; he's deeply and awfully humiliated that he allowed himself to be so _weak, _so _upset,_ so _pathetic. _


	17. The Counsellor

_**I feel like I should mention this just because I think it's relevant to the blocking of how certain bits in this are marked out(like the cuddling bits?)... I don't see Jehan as short/slim; I see him as... Like Alistair Brammer in stature but with a softer face and the fanon long hair. I just can't imagine Jehan being smaller than Courfeyrac for some reason.**_

**_I really need to write something from the Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta narrative, but I have no ideas; help would be appreciated? _**

* * *

Enjolras declines Combeferre's offer to join them in the living room. His eyes shift around the room, not quite wanting to look his friend in the eye. He's angry with himself; after all of the effort he'd put in to never once cry in somebody else's company, he'd blown it. At least it had been Combeferre who'd witnessed his little meltdown. Combeferre is the type not to mention it again, although the strange grimace of worry on his face does suggest that he wants to. He doesn't really want company right now; he still has that stinging feeling in his eyes and the last thing he wants is to repeat his earlier mistake.

Combeferre looks over worriedly, trying to figure out whether the frown forming on Enjolras's face is the result of embarrassment or the result of illness. Either way, Enjolras still doesn't seem like himself. He's jumpy and hesitant and still looks a bit emotional.

"More painkillers?" Combeferre finally breaks the silence.

"M'okay for now," Enjolras has never been the kind to rely on pills, and besides, his head doesn't feel like it's about to fall off any more. "I'm just tired."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

But he's not. And Combeferre can tell. He knows Enjolras is only pushing him away because he doesn't know if he'll be able to remain stoic and calm, despite the fact he really doesn't want to be alone. His migraines often take the energy right out of him, but he's more accustomed to sleeping his way through illness to try and hide it the best as as he can, rather than being in the company of someone who knows and is set out on looking after him.

"Stop this," Combeferre's had it with Enjolras' weird behaviour. "You're not okay. Why do you do this?"

"M'fine..." he mumbles pathetically. "I will be."

"Be truthful with me please. It doesn't matter to me whether you're sick or sobbing or on top of the world; it doesn't change how I think of you."

Enjolras just nods. He knows he needs to remember that showing signs of weakness doesn't necessarily have to make him weak; he's human, for goodness sake. He can't help being ill. He needs to eat. He needs to sleep. He just forgets this sometimes. He's not some kind of robot, able to function without taking the time to look after himself. Combeferre heads back through to the living room, and just minutes later, Enjolras decides to join them. Grantaire's absence is more prominent than they thought it would be, so Jehan sets about trying to coax him into coming through.

He finds Grantaire sitting up in the bed, wringing his hands together nervously. Grantaire can't explain how he feels; his mind is still whirring from the dream. He can still feel the other men's breath on his shoulder, the claustrophobia easing its way around him until he's engulfed. Yet he's alone; he feels so alone. It's usually not so bad; but then again, he's surrounded by just one of the things that makes him feel so happy.

He's relieved when he looks up to find Jehan's face and not Combeferre's. The man is lovely, but his insistence on prying particularly on those who'd rather be left alone can be difficult for Grantaire to deal with. Jehan is a good friend of his. He's there to listen, but unlike Combeferre he never prods away at him to get him to speak up; then again, it's not as if Jehan can't already figure out what's bothering him.

"How are you feeling?" Jehan sits cross-legged on the other bed.

"Shit," Grantaire's voice wobbles slightly. "I-.. Um..."

"I was going to ask you to come and sit with us, but it doesn't matter."

"I'd rather stay here."

"If you want to be alone-"

"N-no..." he doesn't mean for his voice to sound so desperate. "I'd appreciate the company."

"Not liking the idea of being alone, eh?"

"It's stupid isn't it?"

"No," Jehan smiles genuinely. "If you want to talk, I'm willing to listen."

"Did Courf mention-" Grantaire gawks at Jehan, hoping that Combeferre didn't blab to the other three.

"Mention what?"

Grantaire takes a while to decide whether to tell him or not. Jehan doesn't push him for an explanation; he just waits for Grantaire to talk to him or tell him to get lost. Thankfully, he chooses the former, allowing his face to melt into the frown that only half portrayed how he was feeling. He's shaking desperately as he tries to get the first of his words out, and Jehan notes that he should maybe fetch something for Grantaire to drink to suppress the withdrawal symptoms.

"I had a nightmare; jeez, that makes me sound even more like a stupid little kid!" Grantaire chokes out nervously.

But Jehan doesn't judge. He just nods and waits wordlessly for Grantaire to continue.

"I was just...isolated... Completely alone... And then suddenly... surrounded. Like...claustrophobic... I was in the cafe. M-my drawings..."

Grantaire skims around one of the main reasons the dream had shaken him so much; _Enjolras_. It's not that Jehan doesn't already know about his affinity towards the other man(after Eponine, he often confides in Jehan); it's just that he can't get the words to come easily from his aching throat. He's not sure when this all got so out of his hand; the absence of alcohol in his body and the virus tearing away at his immune system seem to have left him unable to think straight. He just wishes he could spill his heart to Enjolras without feeling as if he's going to get slapped in the face, or forget about how he feels completely.

But he can't; his tongue ties whenever he tries to say anything to Enjolras that isn't a sarcastic comment or cynical observation.

The next week is going to be hell, he notes. The claustrophobia of being in Enjolras inescapable company for a week closes in on him, and before he gets a chance to calm himself down, he's panicking. His heart pounds desperately in his chest, his hair is soaked with fevered sweat, his stomach feels like its about to explode from his abdomen, and_ he just can't breathe. _He's not been this anxious in god knows how long; he'd forgotten how terrifying being _this terrified _really is.


	18. Thank God For Jehan

**Miri the Wildmage(thanks for your review), whilst I couldn't pull Enjolras' migraine from my own experiences(again I'm really sad you could sympathise with him:(), this chapter includes something I am familar with; panic attacks. I'm pulling a lot of this from personal experience, so I'm going to assume it's accurate.**

* * *

Part of him is telling him that this panicking is stupid and that he should just get over it, but his mind is filled with irrational thoughts which unfortunately begin to outweigh his common sense. Hyperventilating does very little to help his achy chest, but he can't calm himself down. His mind is so busy that if feels like it's empty; so much going on that he just can't process it all.

"Grantaire," Jehan jumps over and sits on the edge of the bed. "I need you to look at me."

But Grantaire doesn't register his voice. He continues staring at the floor, unable to bring his eyes up to look at his friend. His skin is _crawling. _He feels as if there are bugs getting caught in the beads of sweat which coat his skin. He digs his fingernails into his palms desperately, clutching on to his last ounces of rationality. Jehan reaches out a hand, but Grantaire hastily pushes it away, his arms remaining in the air as if he doesn't want to touch anything. He bites his lip until it's raw, only managing to follow Jehan's order for a second before his eyes forced themselves away.

"Grantaire, I need you to try and stay calm," Jehan speaks gently, but this time he doesn't reach out towards him. "Look at me, R."

It takes a while, but Grantaire fights off the awful feeling that Jehan may judge him and lifts his head. The minute he sees Jehan's gentle smile and placid nature, he releases the tension in his muscles a little. He swallows tiredly even though his mouth feels horribly dry, feeling the panic subside a little with time.

"Good. We need to work on slowing down your breathing, alright?"

"Ok," Grantaire mumbles, his breath hitching uncomfortably.

"I want you to breathe in for two, and then out for three," Jehan waits, copying the action himself. "Now try in for three, and out for four."

This continues until Grantaire's breathing settles. He slumps against the wall in exhaustion, pressing his hands to his eyes to dispel the last of the tears that he can feel building behind his eyes. He can't quite fathom why he got so panicked, or what he was even panicking about.

"T-thank you," he smiles sheepishly towards Jehan.

"I'm sorry. I feel like I pushed you into talking about it-"

"I'm fine. J-just..." he tries to suppress the shaking of his hands, but fails miserably.

"Withdrawal?"

Grantaire nods. He hates admitting it, but it's true. The one thing he knows is a problem in his life, is proving to be even more of a problem in its absence. He knows the sip of whatever Combeferre is going to allow him won't do much to help him; his body is accustomed to being obliterated with pints and pints of ethanol filled beverages.

"Will you be alright if I leave for just a sec?" Jehan turns to him.

"Yeah."

Jehan comes back with the last bottle of Combeferre's beer and his book, and sits back up on the end of Grantaire's bed. He hands the bottle over into Grantaire's shaking hands, telling him that it's all that there is in the house. Grantaire doesn't mind; it's a whole lot more than he was expecting and whilst it may not be enough to properly satisfy his body's ache for alcohol, it stops him from shivering so badly. He's so grateful for Jehan's unyielding company, and even more grateful that the other man doesn't judge him for one second.

Jehan is not sure how he's managed to stay so calm. He's witnessed quite a few panic attacks in his life(most of which were from Joly, but he'd had panic attacks before too, so he can sympathise), but they still never cease to upset him greatly. He knows how unstable Grantaire can be, maybe more so than most others do, but he hates seeing him so anxious; he hates seeing _anyone _so anxious.

Grantaire sighs with relief as the anxiety begins to subside. He doesn't feel like he wants to peel back his skin any more. The shaking is now caused by his fever and not because of his need for alcohol. He still feels awful. He doesn't feel ill in a particular way; he just doesn't feel _right. _But he's in a better state of mind, and that's all that really matters to him. He dismisses Jehan's help, the exhaustion causing him to sink towards his pillow.

Jehan joins the rest of them in the living room again, being clutched and pulled down onto the sofa by Courfeyrac's unusually strong arms. Combeferre has fallen asleep, his head drooping so low that Jehan worries he's going to have a painful neck when he wakes up. Enjolras is still awake, his headache preventing him from getting much shut-eye. He stays silent though, not wanting to wake his sleep deprived friend even though the boredom is starting to kick in. He looks up with a smile of relief upon Jehan's return.

Courfeyrac slips into sleep quickly, allowing Jehan to slip from his grip to sit on the armchair beside Enjolras' side of the sofa. The poor man looks bored out of his skull; Jehan can't imagine how he and the other two must be feeling(particularly him and Courfeyrac, considering the length of time they'd already been ill for). Enjolras wastes no time in complaining, explaining how the pain in his head feels like there's a dagger stabbing away at his brain, and how his sinuses feel like they've been stuffed with cotton wool and how he feels like he's about to choke up a lung every time he coughs. Talking doesn't help that feeling, as he hacks heavily into a balled fist.

"You sound worse," Jehan notes.

"I feel it too," he groans hoarsely. "I could deal with just the headache or just the cough; but when it's both together... Coughing makes my head sore, and my head being sore makes me nauseous which makes me cough and...it's just a vicious circle."


	19. The Archetypes Of Illness

If there was anything that Jehan had noticed over the past few days, it was that his friends fell into certain archetypes when they were ill. Grantaire is the one who deals with the illness in the most sensible way possible; sleeping through- or at least trying to sleep through- it. Of course, in the times he's awake, he's not particularly himself, but most of all he avoids acknowledging how shitty he feels through the medium of unconsciousness. Courfeyrac is without a doubt a cuddly sick person; he clings on for his dear life, and if you wish for the use of your arm in his company, it would be advisable to bring a teddy bear. Most surprisingly, he's discovered that Enjolras is a whiny sick person. Every other time he'd seen the man ill, he'd been in the middle of a desperate attempt to try and hide it, so it was the first time he'd seen him with all of his defences down; like a normal sick person.

He's eternally grateful that his body seems to have held up against the threat of catching whatever virus his friends are suffering with; he doesn't know where they'd be had they not had the support of two coherent friends. He worries a lot that he and Combeferre will get sick at one point, so its a relief that he still feels fine and that Combeferre doesn't seem to be showing any signs of the sickness either. He doesn't quite understand how he's still not sick; he knows he has a sturdy sturdy immune system, but the house has turned into a breeding ground for germs.

"Do you want cough syrup?" Jehan asks as Enjolras forces a particularly bad cough into his hand.

"I told you, that stuff just makes it worse."

"Painkillers? It's been hours since you last had any."

"There's only ibuprofen left. And it's pills."

"Throat still sore?"

"I've been hacking away for hours, what do you think?"

"Can I ask you a favour?" Jehan asks calmly.

"Well there's very little I'm capable of doing at the current moment..."

"Don't give Grantaire a rough time whilst he's here. I know you're often quick to criticise him but... he's vulnerable right now."

"I don't hate him, Jehan," Enjolras is hurt by what Jehan has said, but he knows he's often not the nicest to Grantaire. "Quite the contrary actually. He... He frustrates me."

"You are aware of his affinity to towards you-"

"No?" the blond's eyes widen in shock. "He isn't exactly fond of m-"

"You, my friend, are blind. I thought you knew, but didn't know how to tell him that you didn't reciprocate his feelings."

Enjolras stares at Jehan in disbelief, pressing his hand to his face to see if he was hallucinating from a spike of fever. He just can't process the idea that Grantaire doesn't hate his guts. Jehan catches on quickly; Enjolras does reciprocate Grantaire's feelings- of course he does! The moment should be happy, yet he just can't bring himself to smile. Maybe it's the fever or the headache or the coughing, but he just can't accept what Jehan has told him. If Grantaire was so infatuated with him, why hadn't he been able to notice? How had something so obvious gone amiss with him?

He chokes heavily, feeling the slimy phlegm climb up his throat and coat the back of his tongue and every time he breathes, he can feel his lungs wheeze for their dear life. His throat feels like it's corroding away into nothing, and as he holds his hand to his neck, he discovers that his glands are pretty swollen. His head is pounding, the effects of his last dose of painkillers wearing off, yet he doesn't think he could swallow pills; he'd probably struggle to swallow the liquid kind too.

He's not sure what has happened to him over the past few days; if you'd told him a week ago that he would be reduced to a complaining teary mess over an illness he'd have slapped you. The number of times he'd managed to hide illnesses-even when he felt _worse _than how he does right now(surprisingly, that's actually possible)- from the others unnoticed was innumerable. Curling up in bed was just not an option for him. He normally insists on battling through any ailments by putting on an extra jumper and a scarf or taking vitamins or obeying to antibiotics courses even though he hates medication(which he'd of course keep a secret from his friends), rather than choosing the more sensible option; getting some rest. He would normally dash out of the door each morning at an ungodly hour(a tactic devised to avoid bumping into any of his friends who would send him right back home) to get to work or university. Most times, he would still insist on going to meetings; but only once he'd drugged himself up with whatever cold and flu stuff he knows will work enough to seem like all of his sniffles are nothing more than the beginnings of a cold or allergies. And usually, this plan works.

Well, this plan works with people who aren't Combeferre. On most occasions, Combeferre will let Enjolras' complete lack of self-care slide even though he notices. It's uncommon for Enjolras to get properly ill anyway; if Enjolras has anything more than a bad cold, these occurrences are so few and far between that he tends to put less effort into his act. He'll admit that he needs help(albeit reluctantly), and allow one of his friends- usually Combeferre or Courfeyrac- to aid him on the path to being well again.

However, this particular illness is extremely uncharacteristic of him. Despite his initial denial, he was unusually quick to admit to Combeferre that he wasn't feeling himself. Combeferre and Jehan hope it's a sign that he's developing some common sense, but that may just be wishful thinking.

Jehan sighs, hoping the following day will be more calming and less eventful that today has been. He crosses his fingers that the day ahead may bring something positive; however, his target of improving the sickies' appetite feels a little far fetched. He isn't expecting Grantaire to eat much; he's still in the early stage of the virus, and the nausea is still particularly prominent. It seems strange that Courfeyrac is eating so little though; he's used to seeing him finish an entire mound of food, still in the mood for seconds, so it doesn't make sense that he's turning his nose up at even the tiniest bit of food. Enjolras doesn't eat a whole lot when he's well(_'which is why he's bony as hell'_ Courfeyrac will mutter in annoyance that the blond is horrible to hug), but he's eating even less now. He'll usually eat jut something to keep himself going when he's had nothing else all day, but not a morsel of food has passed his lips in the past day. The improvement of their appetites will signal an improvement in their health, and that's all Jehan wants really; for his friends to feel better.


	20. Pontmercy's Visit

As the night progresses, the group begins to disperse as one by one, the men head to their beds. Courfeyrac is first to leave, his departure paired with a pretty extravagant speech about how uncomfortable the sofa is to sleep on. Enjolras joins him minutes later, each step forcing a cough into his throat. Combeferre is still asleep on the sofa, not moving from his strange position even though the entire couch was now clear. Jehan doesn't have the heart to wake him, because if there's anything he understands, it's sleep deprivation. They haven't slept longer than an hour or two each at a time in the past few days, so if there's anything they're in need of it's the good night's sleep which seems to be in their grip tonight.

Combeferre's eyes finally flutter open, and he rubs his neck tiredly; the consequence of sleeping sitting up.

"Good morning," Jehan smirks.

"It's morning?" Combeferre squints at his friend.

"No. It's about ten at night."

"Feels much earlier..." he yawns, rolling his shoulders to dispel some of the stiffness.

"Are you heading to bed yet?"

"An hour or so. I want a cup of tea."

"I'll stick the kettle on," he smiles, leaving the room for a few minutes and returning with two cups of tea.

"Have you heard from any of the others? Are they all still healthy?"

"Joly's a whole lot better, Bossuet twisted his ankle so now he's out action too," Jehan laughs. "There's a cold going round, but nobody's properly sick from what I've heard; just sniffles."

"Good," Combeferre sighs with relief. "I'm glad it doesn't seem to be going around; the last time everybody was struck down was hell."

_Hell _was putting it lightly.

It had been about the same time last year, and just like this time, the blame was put on Courfeyrac. He'd attended one of the meetings coughing and spluttering and feverish, only for the night to end with him almost projectile vomiting over the entire room. Lobbed with the task of looking after him was of course Combeferre, whose immune system seemed to have failed him, considering the fact that he too was curled up in front of the toilet after two days.

Soon after that they began dropping like flies. Of course, Enjolras made many an attempt to hide it when he started to feel the nausea in his stomach and the pulsing of pain behind his eyes, but these attempts were feeble and were soon stifled by Jehan, who insisted that he stayed at his flat until he was better. Feuilly was next, followed by Eponine and Cosette, and the other friends began taking bets on who would be next; Bahorel won, guessing with Marius, who began to develop the illness' trademark crackly cough. Karma came back to bite Bahorel though, as he was next to fall. For a few days, the ones who were well(Jehan, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta) spread out and shared the care-taking duties, until they two began to feel unwell. It had been horrific; the early 'sickies' had stopped vomiting but still were choked up, meaning that several of the puking ones were left to their own devices.

Combeferre is glad he hasn't caught the virus; a repeat of what happened last year would be horrible. He knows its likely he and Jehan may pick up the cold going round, but that is something they'd be able to handle.

They head to bed, and manage to get a full night's sleep for the first time in days. They both wake up feeling refreshed, and are happy to see Courfeyrac and Enjolras both looking a little better. Courfeyrac is smiling, the nausea obviously having passed, although his sore throat is still very much prominent. Enjolras too seems to be feeling less lethargic, and even though his cough still doesn't sound too great, he feels generally a whole lot better. Grantaire is much better too, his fever having dropped.

Neither Combeferre or Jehan want to go out, but they're in need of more supplies; they're down to just ibuprofen pills which all three of the 'sickies' refuse to take, and could be doing with a few other things. Jehan tries to get hold of one of the others to make the shopping run for him, but unfortunately the only person he can get hold of is Marius.

It's not that Enjolras _hates _Marius; he's just never in the mood for Pontmercy's long rants about his 'one true love'. They just don't get on; opposing political views, different ideas on love, it's no wonder that they struggle to hold a conversation. Marius grates on Enjolras, and vice versa, it's just something that will probably never change. Courfeyrac, however, is fond of the man. Him being the one who introduced Marius his others friends, they get on well. Whilst some of the others may have initially found his bizarre perkiness slightly irritating, Coufeyrac finds it quite endearing.

"Marius is bringing food," Jehan announces. "And both of you are eating a proper meal. No buts."

"But-" Enjolras frowns.

"But..." Courfeyrac pouts.

"I said no buts! You've both hardly ate all week!"

"I was actually protesting against the fact that you've invited _Marius _of all people!"

"You'd protest over anything, Enjolras."

"I'm pretty sure I've heard him protest about _pancakes _before. Of all the bloody things!" Combeferre comes into the living room, perching himself on the edge of the sofa.

"Pancakes sound good. Tell Marius to get pancakes."

Marius arrives about half an hour later, his arms laden with shopping bags(and thankfully, he's remembered the pancakes). He smiles, and the sick pair practically want to grab him and shake him because he's the _god-damn picture of health. _It seems that Pontmercy hasn't even caught the cold spreading around the rest of the friends, causing Enjolras and Courfeyrac to curse their apparently weaker immune systems.

Courfeyrac signals for Marius to join them on the sofa, smiling cheerily towards his friend. Even Enjolras grins and drops his usual hostility; hey, the man brought him his pancakes, so he owes him one.

"Are you staying for breakfast?" Courfeyrac asks.

"I can't-"

"I bet you have a date," Enjolras laughs, but his tone is humorous and friendly, and far from his usual mocking tone.

"Cosette?" Courfeyrac asks.

"How did you know?" Marius sarcastically looks surprised.

"You're nice together," the blond comments.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Enjolras?"

"He's just not himself is he?" Courfeyrac jokes. "But it was nice to see you."

"I hope you're both feeling better," he gets up to go to leave. "And pass on my well wishes to Grantaire too."


	21. Pancakes and Confessions

"You didn't hug us goodbye!" Courfeyrac laughs as he puts on a fake frown.

"I'm not sure I want to-" Marius backs up against the door.

"Combeferre and Jehan haven't gotten sick. You'll be fine. I want a hug."

"Fine..." he huffs, giving probably the quickest hug anyone had ever given before practically darting out the door, and Courfeyrac is convinced he can hear him pull out a bottle of hand sanitizer.

"That was evil," Jehan giggles as he hands Courfeyrac his plate, which is heaped with two pancakes, fresh fruit, and to top it all off, there's a bottle of syrup on the table. "Very evil."

"He'll be fine. Cosette's dad has it, and he's around theirs all the time," Enjolras shrugs, accepting his own plate of pancakes.

Enjolras wolfs his breakfast quickly, any nausea he'd felt over the past few days seeming to have completely faded. Courfeyrac, however, is struggling. He enjoys the pancakes, he just wishes he was hungrier. He's not feeling sick or anything, he just doesn't have much of an appetite; it doesn't help that his throat is so painful that he feels as if it's about to close up for all of eternity. It upsets him slightly, because he knows that some of his lethargy is caused by a lack of food, but he knows he can't eat much more by the time he's eaten the fruit and three quarters of a pancake. Jehan ruffles his curls and sighs, lifting the plate from his friend's knees before the thought of having to eat more food makes him anxious.

"It's okay," Jehan returns to the living room, joining his hand with Courfeyrac's as he sits down beside him. "Try eating something more at lunch and dinner, and if not, there's always tomorrow, alright?"

"Sorry," is all he manages to force from his aching throat.

Enjolras runs off back into his room, finally feeling up to at least planning his essay. Courfeyrac isn't feeling ill per say... He's just fed up, and curls up beside Jehan. He's tired of being ill, and just wants to be able to eat the stupidly large amount of food he usually gets through in a day. It's just how he's feeling, so he can't help it when he begins to let the salty tears fall from his eyes.

Jehan hates it when people cry, but if there's anyone he hates seeing cry the most, it's Courfeyrac. His face always contorts from a half-hearted smile to a wide eyed frown, his cheeks reddening whilst the rest of his skin pales to ghost white. He bites his lip, knowing that if he doesn't the tears are going to hit so fast that he can't control them, and his body shakes with the suppressed sobs.

But it's his eyes. Normally, his eyes sparkle and match the smile spreading across his face, but when he's crying, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and filled to the brim with tears.

"Hey..." Jehan's grip on his hand grows tighter. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just... emotional," he laughs between a sob. "Just... Thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"Being here for us over the past week. You were only supposed to be here for a day, yet you've stayed with us. You've went without sleep, you've comforted us, you've helped Enjolras, you've taken some of the load off Combeferre... You've been so great, Prouvaire. I am never going to be able to repay you. It can't have been fun looking after us all, but you stayed anyway. You put up with me being clingy, and Enjolras' stubborness and Grantaire's cynicism... I know I haven't thanked you much all week, but... Thank you. Thank you so much. I'd have been a mess if you weren't around. Combeferre's lovely, but you... You're gentler. He'll force me to tell him how I'm feeling, but you just let me cry or let me speak or let me do whatever I need to do to feel better."

"Courfeyrac..." Jehan smiles, tears beginning to form in his own eyes before he has the chance to wipe them away.

"This week... I've been so close to panicking and just making myself worse, and if you hadn't been here... I would have let it get to me. I've taken you for granted all week; you've just been _here _and I haven't thought about how you must be feeling... You must be exhausted-... I take you for granted all of the time. You're always here, yet I still insist on flirting with every other guy or girl I meet, as if I'm still trying to make sure that you're right for me."

"Courfeyrac, you're rambling. That can't be good for your throat."

"I know... Sorry for being so teary-"

"No, it's no wonder you're upset. You've had a week of hell and you're allowed to cry about it."

"What is it with you?"

"What?"

"You just... You understand people. You know exactly what to say and how to act. Combeferre has this habit of trying to get you to stop crying, and cheer up but... I need to let it out sometimes. And Enjolras... he just doesn't have time for tears-"

"Courf, you're rambling again.

"Point is, I love you Jehan. I love you..."

"I love you too."

They're relationship wasn't exactly complicated; at the current moment it was somewhere between platonic and romantic, the exact level of which changing from day to day. They'd been together seriously for a while- or 'a while' under Courfeyrac's standards- but they soon grew to feel tied down, as if commitment had ruined the initial passion and closeness that had brought them together in the first place. They knew they were just about perfect for each other, but both of them wanted to go out and experiment and be able to meet other people without it being a bad thing. So that's what they did. Of course now though, it's become difficult for them to decipher whether it's the right time to settle down. On days like today, the thought is considered in both of their minds, but on other days they'd both rather flirt their way through the rest of the student cafe.


	22. In Which Combeferre is Boring

Combeferre, if he has to admit, feels a little left out as he sits and watches Courfeyrac and Jehan cuddling. He considers going to chat with Grantaire, because he's possibly going to be reaching the worst part of the virus soon, and he could probably do with the company, but when he peeks his head through the door, the man has went back to sleep. Instead, he seeks company in his closest friend; Enjolras.

Out of all of his friends, Enjolras is most definitely his closest. They met at high school and had been close ever since. Back then, Enjolras' attempts at being the independent and strong-willed man he wants to be were far more futile; he's not particularly blessed with the gift of height, and looks about half the age he really is, so it's no wonder people always mistake him for being mousy and vulnerable. Combeferre managed to balance this; he's tall, and the way his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose gives him this strange sort of authoritative air about him.

Enjolras is one of the wealthiest of the group, but he's in no way snobby about it. He hates it, in fact. He gives away a lot of his money, giving it to charity or lending(although he'll never accept it back) it to Feuilly and Bossuet. His wealth has earned him quite the living quarters, although he can't stand living in a house with three bedrooms when he's only occupying one. It's for this reason that he often drifts to Combeferre's apartment; it's large, but it's homey unlike his own house.

And he always enjoys Combeferre's company. Enjolras can be fiery and stubborn, yet Combeferre's gentle nature manages to neutralise his stressful personality traits. They can talk away for hours about politics or philosophy or science, yet they can also sit in complete silence, the only sound in the room being the quiet flick of a page.

When Combeferre leans against the doorway, he can see Enjolras. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed in the library room, two thick hardback books resting against his knee with several sheets of lined paper sprawled out in front of him. It's so characteristic of Enjolras; when well, there's never really a time you'd find Enjolras not being productive. Every waking hour(which is often days upon days at a time, until one of the other men forces him to rest) that is not spent with his friends is spent working on an essay, or studying, or planning the next meeting for the student campaign committee.

He's calm and perfectly silent as he scrawls away, his hand getting covered in pen ink due to the misfortunes of being left handed. Although his silence is soon broken by the crackle he forces into his palm. He's better than he was, but he's still quite ill. He sighs in annoyance, still not noticing Combeferre by the door, as he forgets what he was about to write next. Eventually, he gives up, chucking his pen in Combeferre's direction.

"Good throw," Combeferre grins as he catches the pen as it flies through mid-air.

"Good catch," Enjolras smiles, his voice hoarse from coughing.

"You've still got a bit of a fever," he sighs, resting his large hand beneath his friend's messy fringe. "Can I read?"

"Sure," he practically chucks the sheet of paper at him, unhappy that the cough has thrown him off track.

Clearly, Enjolras' brain for law and his talents at writing coherently have been compromised. The bad grammar and spelling is not something he'd associate with his blond friend; his way of writing is usually so immaculate, every word spelled perfectly and each expression is carefully constructed to put his point across.

"You should rest," is all Combeferre says as he looks up.

"Is my essay that shit?" Enjolras chuckles.

"You'll write better when _well. _I know you're feeling better today, but you're still pretty ill. Rest. Read something; and I don't mean one of your textbooks. No matter what you say, that isn't reading for enjoyment."

"Fiction's boring. Well, your horrible selection of it is."

"You're boring."

"Says the guy who loves moths."

"Says the guy who'd rather write this essay instead of sit and watch television or something like a normal person."

"You're mean..." Enjolras fake pouts. "I liked you better at the start of the week."

"I couldn't be mean to a sick person."

"Still sick here," he coughs for effect. "I like Marius more than you."

"Yeah well he brought you pancakes, of course you do. Now are you going to leave the essay until you're able to write it properly?"

"But I could write it now and redraft it-"

"Enjolras..."

"But-"

"Enholras, why do you have to be so stubborn?"

"Fine," he sighs reluctantly. "But I'm not watching some talking dog film just because Courf will refuse to watch a thriller-"

"To be fair, the poor guy has been nauseous for the past few days; I don't think scaring him out of his wits is going to be much help."

"Well I may puke if I have to watch some golden retriever save some kid-"

Combeferre can't help but laugh. It's strange how three men with very little in common in terms of interests can be such close friends. Of course, all three are interested in social justice and other things that the campaign committee deal with, but as far as television shows and films and books go, they couldn't be more different.

Courfeyrac, for some reason, insists on embracing his inner child. He's unashamed of watching old cartoons, pixar movies or sappy animal films. He's also impartial to the odd rom-com, or stupid comedy film filled with all of the worst innuendos known to man(although that's not particularly surprising for Courfeyrac). Anyway, he's not fussy about what he reads and watches though(as long as it's not horror he'll probably enjoy it), which is probably why the endless amount of TV box sets piling up in one of Combeferre's cupboards is starting to become a problem.

Enjolras, however, wouldn't touch most of the things Courfeyrac enjoys with a ten foot barge pole. Kids films are too happy, rom-coms are shit, half the comedies aren't even funny and are sexist as shit, and he loses interest in most television series after the first season. He reads almost solely non-fiction, mostly politics, although he's got a few novels on his shelf which he secretly enjoys. Thriller films are probably his favourite, if he has to watch a film. It's not that he loves them or anything, but they're the best of a bad bunch.

Combeferre's open when it comes to the literature and media he consumes. He would read almost any book thrown his way, and enjoys most of the films his friends make him endure. He values the power of story telling, whether it's a happy film primarily aimed at a child, or a thrilling horror for adults, he really doesn't mind.

However, contrast always seems to create balance. They're differences make them closer than ever.


	23. Comverting The Cynic

Much to Enjolras' disappointment, the film selected is some stupid comedy. After just a few scenes of silly innuendos, he shakes his head and decides to go and speak to Grantaire(although, if he's trying to avoid innuendos maybe that's not the best person he could talk to). The man has finally woken up, and Enjolras can't help but be a little bit jealous over the fact that his friend seems to be so much better already.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras' asks tentatively, as he gently tip-toes into the room.

"Hey," he doesn't look up, wringing his hands together. "Are you that bored of the others' company?-"

"Stop it."

"Wh-"

"Just stop it, okay?"

"Stop what?"

"Acting like I look down on you, and that I hate you, and that I think I'm better than you!"

"I-Isn't that true?"

Grantaire's eyes glare into Enjolras, beads of watery tears resting against his eyelashes. It's not a look of spite; it's a look of unrequited love. He looks defeated, as if the thought of Enjolras' apparent hatred of him is like another dagger, digging its way into his stomach and turning and turning and turning until pain is the only thing he can feel. It's as if his chest is being torn open, his lungs being ripped from his ribcage(quite literally taking his breath away) and his heart being pulled out.

Enjolras just watches as the man crumbles, as he digs the metaphorical knife further and further into Grantaire's body. He can't believe he's let it get to this stage. As much as he took so long to admit it, _he loves Grantaire, _he really does. He just wants to shove his arms around the man's neck and hold him close and tell him that it's okay, and tell him that he loves him and that he so doesn't hate him and that he thinks he's amazing.

But he doesn't. Something inside him forces his brain to betray him, and he stays perfectly still, perfectly silent. He remains by the door, his only movement being the deep rise and fall of his chest and the desperate shaking of his nervous hands.

"N-no," he finally manages to muster. "I-I... I don't hate you, Grantaire."

"Funny way of showing it," Grantaire scoffs nervously. "You may not hate me, but you find me annoying... I'm just the drunkard in the corner of the cafe to you."

"N-no..." Enjolras anxiously walks forward, awkwardly sitting on the edge of the opposite bed. "It disappoints me but that you ruin yourself with that _poison, _but... you're so much more than a drunken cynic Grantaire. You're smart; one of the smartest people I've met-"

"Stop trying to be nice to me. I know what you think of me and-"

"Grantaire, I love you. Or I think I love you. I don't know."

"W-w-what?!"

"And Jehan told me-"

"What did Jehan tell you?"

"That you may reciprocate that feeling."

"I don't think I understand... Enjolras. I-I... To me, it's like you're not even human. You don't look like other people; you're beautiful. And you have such a personality! But my infatuation with you has been unrealistic and stupid. I _am _just the drunkard in the corner of the cafe. All I'm good for is shoving drink after drink down my throat and then complaining that life sucks. I-I..."

"Grantaire, I'm sorry. I've been a horrible person. You of all people should know that I can be easily annoyed, and that's what happened. I was disappointed that you hadn't lived up to my expectations."

"I-I... You have no idea how much I love you Enjolras-"

"I know. But Grantaire... I can't be with you at the moment."

"But why-"

"I've been an awful person to you. I can't forgive myself for how I've treated you over the years; I must've made you feel like shit!"

"Shit would be an understatement."

"I want you to be happy, and I don't think that you can be happy with me. There are nicer people in the world; hurting you any more than I already have... I can't."

Grantaire sighs with disappointment, but understands and nods. The tears balancing on his eyelashes have finally spilled down his cheeks, and he bites his lip to try and calm himself down. Enjolras anxiously kneels in front of Grantaire, who sits cross-legged on the bed, and tepidly reaches out his hand onto the other man's shoulder. Grantaire's eyes refuse to meet Enjolras', and his hands fidget desperately. All of a sudden, Enjolras' arms are around Grantaire's neck. Grantaire shoves his head into the blond man's shoulder and sobs heavily. They stay like this for a while, before he finally manages to slow his breathing down. They pull apart, both sighing tiredly.

"M'sorry," Enjolras mumbles. "I need time to think and forgive myself, and you need time to sober up a little and brighten up your life. I want us to be friends first. I want us to get to know each other properly, because all this time we've been in love with the idea of each other, and not the real us."

"I think that would be best."

"I want to help you. I don't want you collapsing dead because your liver has packed in."

"I can't imagine myself without drink-"

"You don't have to. It's your choice. I just think you're wasting your life by not trying to do anything about it."

"I want to. I've just never really had the strength. I _need_ it, Enjolras. Or I think I need it."

"First things first, you have to be happy. You drink to forget how shitty you're feeling, right? So if we take away that shitty feeling, we'll be able to work on the drink."

"T-thank you."


	24. Courfeyrac Has Learnt His Lesson

**So this is it... the final chapter. I've loved writing this, even if I didn't expect it to be so long... Thank you to every single person who has sent me lovely reviews; both kind and constructive criticisms have been super important to me:D**

**So I'm going to figure out what my next fanfic is going to be. I'm actually really warming to the idea of writing a Tennis AU(i'm swaying towards the les mis fandom for this too) because of all the Wimbledon stuff going on. I'm just worried I wouldn't have much of a readership, considering tennis is kind of an obscure interest... but it's something I'd ADORE writing, so I'm wanting to hear what people think about the idea? And come on, just think of Enjolras in white shorts...:') And of course, there's definitely opportunity for sick!fic(or at least hurt/comfort in some form) so... What do you think? Would you read? It'd probably be focused around similar characters to who I wrote about in this, as well as probably Cosette and Eponine, and maybe Valjean and Javert as old foes or something.**

* * *

As if by some miracle, all three men are a million times better the next morning. Grantaire, seemingly healed by his happiness, is free from fever and doesn't feel ill at all. Enjolras still has a bit of a cough, but it's more from the fact that he's wasted his throat from hacking away rather than a wheeze in his chest. Courfeyrac's appetite completely returns, as he demolishes a breakfast that would have fed three people, even if his voice still sounds a little funny.

It's strange for Combeferre and Jehan to see them well; they've grown accustomed to seeing them pale, red cheeked and down-trodden. Most notably, the rosiness has returned to Enjolras' cheeks, making him look like the picture of health. They're not sure how to deal with it, as they've gotten used to lounging about on the sofa and performing nurse duties. Combeferre has to resist the urge to stop them from bouncing around, ecstatic with good health, knowing that his worries are misplaced. It's one of his greatest flaws; the fact that he worries so much about others. Enjolras sometimes wishes that such a trait did not exist within his friend, but he knows that he wouldn't have it any other way. It's Combeferre's seemingly unnecessary worrying that has saved his life on countless occasions.

Although Enjolras isn't the only one who is doubtful about an aspect of his friend's personality; Combeferre wishes Enjolras wasn't such a workaholic. Living up to Combeferre's expectations, he predicts accurately that Enjolras is about to start insisting on a meeting tonight. Deep down, he knows he won't be able to change his friend's mind, but he wants his friend to rest for at least one more day.

Of course, Enjolras refuses. He doesn't see the point in resting when he honestly feels fine. And besides, he's pretty sure it's _someone's _birthday, he just can't remember whose exactly it is. He spends a good hour or two planning the meeting around the upcoming petition next week, as well as checking with Jehan to find that it is in fact Feuilly's birthday today. Instead of sending out a text, he makes sure to call each of his friend's individually to make sure they are aware of the meeting and to ask them to spread it around. As expected, he's bombarded with questions of 'how are you feeling?', and 'are you better now?' and 'how's Grantaire?' and 'how's Courfeyrac?', but unexpectedly he doesn't answer with hostility. He answers every question, a smile still spread across his face.

He practically bounds out the door like a dog going to greet it's owner as they head towards the car. It's a squeeze with five people, but Courfeyrac is happy sitting in the middle in the back seat and bombarding an unlucky Enjolras and Jehan with cuddles. Grantaire laughs, thankful that he's not the one sandwiched between them all.

The cafe is full when they walk in; or at least, all of the les amis have turned up. Most are red-nosed, still nursing mild colds that have left them sniffling and miserable. It's strange for the three now 'not-so-sickies' to feel like _they _are the ones who are worrying about getting sick and not the others, but not one of them wants to catch a cold after the week of hell they've suffered through. Joly grins when he sees them walk through the door.

Joly's much better now too. He's still a little peaky looking, but then again Joly's _always _peaky looking.

"I am so sorry..." he sighs heavily, a smile still gently thrown across his lips. "I was the one who got you three sick."

"If it's anybody's fault it's Courfeyrac's, Jol'."

"Joly, I promise..." Courfeyrac's eyes widen with genuine regret. "I will never- _and I repeat never_- doubt the truth of your illnesses ever again. This week has been awful, and I take full responsibility for making myself feel like shit. And I'm so so sorry... And Enjolras? Grantaire? I'm sorry for getting you two sick too. This week has been awful for me, but it has been just as bad for you all too."

"Here's hoping we don't catch that cold going around too," Enjolras grimaces, lifting his shirt collar to his mouth as he watches Bahorel sneeze.

"I'm worried that I already have," Joly frets, but laughs whole heartedly.

"I'm just hoping Jehan and Combeferre don't get sick. They were looking after us all week," Courfeyrac sighs. "They've already lost a lot of sleep, they must be exhausted."

"And Musichetta and Bossuet..."

It takes a whole two hours for Enjolras to realize that Marius is not in attendance(and therefore not Cosette either). He looks over to Courfeyrac-who grins widely- and laughs. He discovers from Eponine that Marius had picked up the virus when he visited, and although it's nowhere near as bad as he, Courfeyrac, Joly and Grantaire had been, he's too ill to attend.

He shrugs it off quickly as the night begins to get exciting. He clambers up to the podium for his speech, grinning with pride at being back in the spot where he belongs.

"Thank you for bearing with me in my absence last week; you were probably all glad to see the back of me for a while!" he's in his element. "Now before I start my speech, I want to wish a huge happy birthday to the amazing Feuilly; have a good one, man!"

The speech goes well, and the night is only beginning. As usual, Enjolras abstains from drinking but still has a wonderful time. Courfeyrac strangely sticks to just a few drinks, not wanting to end up feeling shitty with a hangover after an entire week feeling shitty. Most unusually though, Grantaire doesn't pick up the bottle with such urgency as he usually does. He drinks, but he drinks just as Feuilly drinks, and as Bahorel drinks, and as Bossuet and Joly drink. He doesn't shove it down his throat.

And he looks happy. It's a sight you don't often see. Whilst he smiles a lot, it's usually a smirk aiming to rile Enjolras up in his drunken stupor, but this wide grin is genuine. The guffawing laughter is like music to his friend's ears.

As awful as a week it has been, the week has also brought a few good things in teaching the men a few lessons. Courfeyrac and Jehan are closer to realising that they really are meant to be. Enjolras seems to have become less stubborn about insisting that he's fine and is slowly beginning to tear down his mental barricade and let at least Combeferre in. And Grantaire and Enjorlas aren't so oblivious anymore.

But really, the most important lesson they'd learn was to _always, always, always _listen to Joly when he says he is ill, or else karma's just going to come right up and bite you in the butt.


End file.
